tffzf^f  **&  -•**?      \      • . 

WHA 


MR,  DESMOND 


C.NINA  BOYLE 


WHAT  BECAME  OF 
MR.  DESMOND 


WHAT  BECAME  OF 
MR.  DESMOND 


BY 

C.  NINA  BOYLE 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  INC. 


All  rights  reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

GRANNIEMA" 


2135111 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I  A  PICTURE  FALLS 

II  STEPPING  ROUND  TO  TENTERLEY'S 

III  BEWILDERMENT 

IV  THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME    .... 
V  THE  DOMAIN 

VI  THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING     . 

VII  FATHERS  AND  MOTHERS 

VIII  THE  ANNIVERSARY 

IX  "THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER" 

X  THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME      .     .      . 

XI  THE  MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM    . 

XII  FAMILY  AMENITIES       .... 

XIII  LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND     . 

XIV  TERESA'S  TALONS 

XV  MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN 

XVI  EXPLORERS  AND  EXCAVATORS    . 

XVII  WILLIE  JOHNSTONE       .... 

XVIII  BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  .... 

XIX  THE  TRAP 

XX  THE  SCAR 

XXI  KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  .     .     . 

XXII  TRUE  LOVE 


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293 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR. 
DESMOND 


CHAPTER  I 

A  PICTURE  FALLS 

TRUTH  is  stranger  than  fiction — a  platitudinous  re- 
mark frequently  resorted  to  by  platitudinarians.  Its 
triteness,  and  a  certain  smack  of  profundity  that  clings 
to  it,  endears  it  to  such  persons;  just  as  its  truthful- 
ness— its  very  undeniability — prevents  them  from  get- 
ting so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  its  reality.  The  ordinary, 
the  platitudinous  mind,  lacks  imagination,  and  it  may 
even  be  courage  enough,  to  grapple  with  reality.  Had 
the  majority  of  us  a  sufficient  supply  of  imagination, 
indeed,  to  grasp  the  true  meaning  of  the  battered  and 
hackneyed  saying  so  universally  quoted,  it  is  probable 
that  the  ordinary  supply  of  courage  might  give  out  in 
contemplating  the  possibilities  of  Life  under  such  a 
search-light. 

For,  what  is  Fiction?  Is  it  not  simply  a  weaving 
and  shifting  and  re-arranging  of  the  strands  that  go  to 
make  up  ordinary  life — haunting  tragedy  side  by  side 
with  petty  incident,  bitter  sorrow  and  grim  comedy 
mixed  with  the  deadly  dulness,  the  heavy  burden,  the 

9 


io      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

frivolous  chatter,  of  the  daily  round,  the  common 
task?  When  we  find  in  it  wild  adventure,  terrible 
disaster,  difficult  problems,  insoluble  mysteries — the 
lighter,  happier,  more  genial  side  of  life  in  juxtaposition 
with  crime,  vice,  danger  and  despair — do  we  realise 
that  these  improbable  things  happen?  And  when  we 
read,  in  the  stilted  and  seldom  correct  journalese  which 
fills  the  columns  of  the  penny  press,  of  some  unimagin- 
able family  tangle,  some  scandal  whose  dimensions 
make  the  Divorce  Court  stagger,  some  disaster  that 
seems  incredible,  some  mystery  more  dreadful  than 
death;  do  we  grasp  that  it  is  from  these  sordid  and 
sensational  chronicles  the  skilful  authors  on  whose 
portrayal  of  romance  we  hang  with  thrills  of  joy,  pity, 
or  horror,  derive  inspiration?  Situations  as  romantic, 
possibilities  as  unplumbed,  dangers  and  mysteries  as 
profound  as  any  devised  by  the  most  subtle  brain,  sur- 
round our  daily  life  and  accompany  us  every  step  of 
the  way  through  it. 

The  bank  manager  on  whose  wife  we  call  with  a 
bored  courtesy,  and  whose  housekeeping  we  admire, 
may  be  the  one  brought  before  the  Criminal  Courts 
to  divulge  a  tale  of  fraud  stupendous.  The  man  who 
blew  his  brains  out  at  Monte  Carlo  played  dumb 
crambo  with  our  first  cousin's  children  last  Christmas. 
The  girl  whose  maltreated  body  was  found  below  the 
cliff,  tossed  by  the  tide,  murdered  in  God  knows  what 
frenzy  of  passion  and  rage,  sat  next  our  daughter  in 
the  Censors'  office,  and  was  an  authority  on  knitted 
jumpers.  The  distraught  mother  who  cut  her  own 
and  her  three  children's  throats,  and  left  a  blind  and 


A  PICTURE  FALLS  n 

helpless  husband  to  mourn  them,  was  our  neighbour's 
charwoman.  The  youngster  who  "held  up"  a  bank 
and  inadvertently  committed  murder  on  the  old  clerk, 
was  at  evening  classes  with  Bert  and  Bill.  The  officer 
murdered  before  his  wife's  eyes  in  Dublin  is  unexpect- 
edly the  son  of  a  woman  we  have  seen  for  years  at  our 
Club,  and  to  whom  we  sometimes  speak.  The  little 
girl  burnt  to  death  while  her  mother  was  shopping  was 
the  one  to  whom  you  gave  a  penny  because  she  danced 
so  daintily  to  the  street-organ. 

What  happens  to  these  people  can  happen  to  us; 
and  that  is  the  strangest  and  truest  of  all  the  things 
wrapped  up  in  the  phrase  "Truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction." 

So,  there  was  nothing  at  all  surprising,  looked  at 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  philosopher,  in  what 
happened  at  Fairlands  in  the  case  of  Mr.  David  Des- 
mond. It  happens  very  often,  to  a  number  of  people 
.we  do  not  know,  and  of  whom  we  read  with  a  casual 
and  short-lived  interest,  in  little  paragraphs  in  the 
papers;  and  it  is  safe  to  presume,  might  at  any  given 
moment  happen  to  you  and  me,  or  to  our  next-door 
neighbour.  It  may  be  very  disconcerting,  and  it  may 
be  very  surprising  to  us,  or  to  them;  but  it  is  not  in 
itself  surprising. 

When  Mr.  Desmond  disappeared,  people  found  it 
so  surprising  they  talked  about  it  for  quite  a  consider- 
able length  of  time.  In  those  days,  the  Press  was  not 
so  alert  as  now/  and  people  were  not  so  anxious  to 
have  their  names  mentioned  in  its  columns.  Mr.  Des- 
mond, in  particular,  had  inherited  from  his  old-fash- 


12      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

ioned  father  a  horror  of  Press  publicity.  For  your 
name  to  "get  into  the  papers"  was  to  him  the  acme  of 
vulgarity;  and  he  used  the  suggestion  as  a  threat  to 
quell  the  exuberant  modernity  of  his  sister.  Mr.  Des- 
mond was  old-fashioned  in  more  ways  than  this.  His 
father  had  burned  wax  candles  on  the  dining-table 
longer  than  any  other  of  his  acquaintances,  and  used 
moderator  lamps  that  were  fed  with  colza  oil,  as  long 
as  such  lamps  were  manufactured.  He  cherished  a 
contempt  and  dislike  for  gas  and  paraffin;  and  his  one 
incursion  into  modernity  was  when  he  adopted  electric 
lighting  in  advance  of  anyone  else  in  the  neighbour- 
hood to  emphasise  his  detestation  of  the  "new-fangled" 
notions  that  succeeded  colza  oil  and  moderator  lamps. 
Mr.  David  Desmond  remembered,  and  approved,  and 
sympathised  in  this  habit  of  mind. 

Mr.  Desmond  was  a  highly  domesticated  man.  He 
took  the  greatest  interest  in  the  home  and  all  pertain- 
ing to  it.  He  knew  the  damask  patterns  of  all  the 
table-cloths,  and  often  asked  where  the  new  kitchen- 
cloths  he  had  seen  drying,  were  bought.  He  was  the 
first  to  see  that  there  was  a  faded  spot  in  the  dining- 
room  carpet,  and  had  an  unerring  eye  for  dust  and  un- 
swept  corners.  He  loved  hanging  pictures,  putting  up 
shelves,  tinkering  at  taps,  winding  the  kitchen  eight- 
day  clock,  mowing  the  lawn,  and  oiling  locks  and 
hinges.  He  knew  the  price  of  eggs,  liked  to  be  asked 
his  opinion  of  the  fowl  Cook  was  trussing,  and  flattered 
himself  that  the  most  becoming,  as  well  as  the  most 
lasting  dresses  his  wife  wore,  were  those  of  his  choos- 
ing. A  busy,  bustling,  contented  creature,  with  a  sub- 


A  PICTURE  FALLS  13 

stantial  income,  a  pleasant  house,  and  a  good-looking, 
good-tempered  and  promising  family,  he  was  an  object 
of  mild  envy  to  less  fortunate  men. 

Mrs.  Desmond  was  an  excessively  handsome  woman, 
as  phlegmatic  and  indolent  as  her  husband  was  the  re- 
verse. She  immersed  herself  in  the  reading  of  light 
literature,  devouring  the  romances  of  Thackeray, 
Scott,  Dickens,  Reade  and  Wilkie  Collins,  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell,  Jane  Austen,  and  the  Brontes;  with  unambitious 
incursions  into  Macaulay's  Essays,  Pepy's  Diary,  and 
Plutarch's  Lives.  Her  housekeeping  was  a  thing  to 
which  she  roused  herself,  from  these  pleasing  realms 
of  imagination,  with  difficulty  and  reluctance,  seeming 
to  come  back  to  it  from  distant  spaces,  a  little  dreamy- 
eyed  and  absent.  Her  husband  used  to  say  that  the 
Master  of  Ravenswood,  or  Col.  Newcombe,  was  a  far 
more  real  personage  to  her  than  he,  her  husband;  and 
she  would  smile  her  charming,  absent  smile,  and  not 
deny  it.  She  liked  to  know  he  was  about  the  place, 
and  it  gave  her  a  subconscious  satisfaction  to  hear  him 
mowing,  or  hammering,  or  investigating  the  kitchen 
flue — the  noise  of  his  operations  reaching  her  and 
soothing,  rather  than  disturbing  her.  He  also  liked  to 
know  she  was  about  the  place,  and  could  settle  to  noth- 
ing, and  do  little  else  than  fidget,  on  the  rare  occasions 
that  he  came  in  and  found  her  away  from  the  house. 
What  of  companionship  they  gave  each  other,  that  was 
missed  when  not  forthcoming,  was  a  mystery  to  the 
outside  world  that  laughed  and  did  not  understand. 

So  when  Mr.  Desmond  disappeared,  there  were  not 
wanting  those  who  said  they  did  not  wonder  at  it. 


i4      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

When  a  man  had  a  wife  who  took  no  interest  in  his 
pursuits  and  tastes,  and  who  was  so  cold  and  detached 
and  so  wrapped  up  in  her  own  fancies,  one  must  not 
be  surprised  at  what  happened.  These  persons  saw, 
in  their  mind's  eye,  a  philandering  Mr.  Desmond  se- 
cretly meeting  and  finally  eloping  with  some  gayer, 
warmer,  more  expansive  lady;  and  discounted  all  the 
circumstances  which  made  this  theory  seem  fantastic 
to  his  family. 

Mr.  Desmond  had  been  married  twelve  years,  and 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  in  that  way  of  his  that 
sounded  so  bad  when  repeated,  and  so  delightful  when 
uttered,  that  it  seemed  like  twenty-four  rather  than 
twelve.  He  could  not,  he  declared,  remember  any- 
thing about  the  time  before  he  was  married.  It  was 
not.  It  had  not  been  life,  or  anything  worth  record- 
ing; memory  began,  for  him,  from  the  date  of  his 
marriage.  And  Mrs.  Desmond,  listening,  would  smile 
her  long-distance  smile,  and  ask  whether  there  was  not 
someone  still  moving  in  the  kitchen,  and  had  they  re- 
membered to  feed  Polly.  It  was  her  nearest  approach 
to  housewifely  concern;  but  as  her  servants  were  of 
the  old  and  faithful  kind,  who  had  been  in  Mr.  Des- 
mond's family  from  generation  to  generation,  and  who 
worshipped  the  Master  and  the  Mistress,  it  did  not 
much  matter. 

In  consequence  of  discretion,  consideration,  or — it 
might  be — merely  happy  good  fortune,  Mrs.  Des- 
mond's family  had  not  been  poured  upon  her  year 
after  year  in  overwhelming  succession,  as  was  so  fre- 
quently the  case,  especially  in  those  days.  The  eldest 


A  PICTURE  FALLS  15 

child  was  eleven,  a  son,  busy  and  restless  like  his 
father,  but  with  rather  a  superior  attitude  towards 
that  parent's  activities  as  those  of  an  amateur. 
Brookes  got  the  lawn  mowed  more  quickly  and 
smoothly;  Tenterley  never  hit  his  nails  with  the  ham- 
mer, nor  notched  jags  with  the  plane.  There  was  a 
critical  attitude  that  Mr.  Desmond  sometimes  found 
a  little  hard,  and  Mrs.  Desmond  disliked  as  disrespect- 
ful. It  did  not  extend  to  her;  in  the  child's  eye  she 
was  perfect,  but  that  did  not  lessen  her  disapproval. 

After  Lennox  came  May,  aged  eight — a  sweet,  sunny 
creature,  fair  and  fluffy  and  affectionate;  followed  by 
Luttrell,  aged  six,  who  was  her  devoted  slave.  The 
twins,  Hubert  and  Hero,  were  between  two  and  three; 
their  advent  had  been  a  world-shaking  event,  from 
which  the  family  had  hardly  yet  recovered.  Mrs. 
Desmond  had  almost  roused  herself  to  concern  about 
the  resources  available  in  baby-clothes,  and  could  not 
get  over  having  taken  everyone  by  surprise  in  such  a 
fashion;  while  Mr.  Desmond  never  really  rid  himself 
of  the  impression  that  his  wife  had  indulged  in  a  wild 
and  reckless  enterprise  which  showed  her  to  be  a  very 
adventurous  person,  in  spite  of  all  appearances  to  the 
contrary. 

"I  wonder  what  we  may  expect  you  to  do  next?" 
he  would  ask;  or,  "What  place  are  you  going  to  break 
out  in  now?"  as  if  he  suspected  her  of  deep  and  hu- 
morous plottings  to  take  the  family  by  surprise. 

Miss  Hermiorie  Desmond,  Mr.  Desmond's  sister, 
a  vivacious  young  woman  of  four-and-twenty,  lavished 
much  affection  on  her  brother  and  his  wife,  and 


16      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

thought  them  two  delightfully  absurd  and  darling 
people  whom  Providence  had  appointed  her  to  watch 
over  and  protect.  She  was  passionately  attached  to 
the  children,  and  gave  up  much  of  her  time  to  them; 
nevertheless,  the  objectless,  untrained  life  of  those 
days,  in  which  a  young  woman's  occupations  were 
limited  to  visiting,  croquet,  embroidery  and  waiting  for 
a  husband,  goaded  her  into  incautious  and  mutinous 
expressions  which  caused  Mr.  Desmond  much  uneasi- 
ness. 

"You  shouldn't,"  he  used  to  say.  "You  don't  want 
to  be  taken  for  one  of  these  New  Women,  do  you?" 

The  New  Woman  was  the  last  word  in  reproach. 

The  catastrophe  that  overtook  the  house  of  Des- 
mond, was,  as  will  be  seen,  as  unexpected,  as  bewil- 
dering, as  it  was  possible  to  envisage.  In  such  a  fam- 
ily, and  in  such  a  neighbourhood,  where  peace  and  the 
proprieties  reigned  unquestioned,  it  naturally  made  a 
greater  sensation  than  if  it  had  occurred  in  one  of 
those  unfortunate  places  where  the  smooth  surface  of 
Society  is  constantly  disturbed  by  the  ripples  of 
scandal  and  the  splashes  of  tragedy. 

The  way  of  it  was  almost  the  worst  part  of  it. 
There  was  all  the  horror  of  mystery  closing  in  on  the 
absolutely  matter-of-fact.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  homely,  less  allied  to  the  dramatic,  than  the 
actions  of  Mr.  Desmond  that  day.  In  point  of  fact, 
it  was  one  of  those  days  when  he  was  thoroughly  en- 
joying himself.  A  picture  had  fallen. 

In  some  households,  the  falling  of  a  picture  spreads 
dismay.  Like  the  breaking  of  a  looking-glass,  it  is 


A  PICTURE  FALLS  17 

held  to  be  a  portent  of  disaster.  Not  so  in  the  Des- 
mond family.  The  smiling  servants  whispered  glee- 
fully, "Here  is  a  job  for  the  Master,"  and  Miss  Des- 
mond wanted  to  know  what  her  brother  could  have 
been  thinking  of,  to  leave  the  picture-cords  so  long  un- 
inspected. 

"When  one  comes  down,  others  are  sure  to  do  it  too. 
It  will  be  a  nice  piece  of  work  for  you,  David,  to  see  to 
them  all  and  test  the  cords.  Did  the  cord  break?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Desmond.  "The  nail  came  out.  I 
do  not  think  it  was  long  enough.  The  walls  always 
were  rather  soft." 

After  breakfast  there  was  a  great  turning-out  of  the 
cupboard  in  which  he  kept  his  collection  of  tools;  and  a 
great  comparing  and  selecting  of  nails.  Not  only  did 
the  fallen  picture  rise  again  to  its  place  on  the  wall, 
but  many  other  pictures  came  down  and  went  up  again, 
with  their  nails  changed  and  their  cords  renewed. 
Mr.  Desmond  worked  hard,  whistling  and  humming,  in 
cheerful  preoccupation;  and  sometimes  one,  sometimes 
another  of  his  household  watched  him  and  made  use- 
ful— or  otherwise — comments  and  suggestions. 

Lennox  was  more  than  critical.  On  one  occasion 
he  was  pert;  and  his  aunt  sent  him  away  "until  he 
learned  how  to  behave  himself." 

At  lunch-time  the  Rector  called,  and  was  pressed 
to  stay  for  the  meal.  Lingering  over  the  port  with 
his  old  College  friend,  it  was  three  o'clock  before  Mr. 
Desmond  got  back  to  the  picture-hanging. 

It  was  his  custom  to  array  himself  for  these  enter- 
prises in  a  green  baize  apron,  with  a  workmanlike 


i8      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

pocket  divided  into  compartments  reaching  all  along 
his  front.  In  these  compartments  he  kept  nails,  and 
stuck  his  hammer  or  pincers  when  not  wanted.  He  re- 
moved his  coat,  because  that  was  the  thing  to  do;  and 
worked  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  Sometimes  he  made  a 
feint  of  spitting  on  his  hands,  to  make  Miss  Desmond, 
or  old  Brookes,  laugh. 

"I'm  one  nail  short,"  he  complained,  searching  in 
the  baize  pocket.  There  was  one  more  picture;  and  in 
removing  the  old  nail  it  had  got  twisted,  and  by  no  pro- 
cess of  hammering  could  be  straightened  for  use  again. 

A  prolonged  hunt  in  the  cupboard  produced  no  nail 
suitable. 

"I  must  finish  this,"  said  Mr.  Desmond,  as  anxiously 
as  if  England's  fate  depended  upon  it.  "I  can't  be 
prevented  for  want  of  one  nail.  Where  is  Brookes?" 

Brookes  had  gone  to  load  manure.  Mary  was 
"busy"  with  Mrs.  Desmond,  and  Miss  Desmond, 
during  that  period,  was  in  charge  of  Hubert  and  Hero, 
who  watched  their  father  with  admiring  eyes.  Len- 
nox had  trotted  home  with  the  Rector  to  see  the 
Rectory  pups;  Luttrell  was  too  young  to  be  sent 
errands  alone. 

"I'll  step  round  to  Tenterley's,"  said  Mr.  Desmond. 
"It  does  not  do  to  be  without  nails  like  that  in  the 
house." 

He  went,  just  as  he  was — with  an  unsophisticated 
pleasure  in  looking  workmanlike — in  green  baize 
apron,  shirt-sleeves,  bare  head;  with  a  hammer  stick- 
ing out  of  one  pocket  compartment,  and  the  twisted 
nail  in  his  hand  to  measure  with  to  get  a  larger  size. 


A  PICTURE  FALLS  19 

He  went  out  of  the  children's  playroom,  on  the  ground 
floor,  along  the  short,  tiled  passage  to  the  side-door 
that  opened  into  the  grassy  walk  down  the  garden. 
Half-way  down,  a  little  path  at  right  angles,  to  the 
right,  led  to  a  door  in  the  garden  wall,  which  he  opened. 
Passing  out  into  the  lane,  he  closed  it  behind  him,  to 
"step  round  to  Tenterley's." 


CHAPTER  II 

STEPPING  ROUND   TO   TENTERLEY's 

TENTERLEY'S  was  the  last  shop  in  the  straggling 
village  street,  which  made  a  great  dip  and  widened  out 
considerably  at  the  place  where  the  shops  came  to  an 
end.  Alongside  Tenterley's  little  low-browed,  wide- 
windowed  house,  with  the  one  tiny  dormer  window  in  a 
roof  not  intended  for  such  adornments,  was  a  lane, 
running  back  slant-wise  from  the  street;  and  on  the 
other  side  of  this  lane  rose  the  high  brick  wall,  un- 
compromising and  blank,  of  The  Domain,  topped  by 
the  grey  brow  of  the  Old  Tower.  Across  the  street, 
ending  the  shops  on  that  side,  was  a  high,  masoned 
path  with  a  hand-rail  skirting  a  deep  bit  of  water  that 
had  a  shallower  shore  at  the  further  side.  Round  this 
pond  the  village  children  played;  and  a  trickling 
streamlet  ran  out  from  the  shore  furthest  from  the 
street,  which  was  a  goose-green  that  in  winter  became 
a  nasty,  marshy,  messy,  impassable  slough.  Access 
to  it  was  obtained  by  the  high  masoned  path  with  the 
hand-rail. 

Facing  the  water  and  the  Green,  The  Domain  stood, 
four-square  solid,  ruddy,  ancient,  squat.  The  old 
family  still  lived  there,  proud  and  exclusive,  untouched 

20 


STEPPING  ROUND  TO  TENTERLEY'S       21 

by  the  vulgarities  of  the  new  generation.  Once  they 
had  lived  at  Fairlands  Park,  and  owned  the  country- 
side. Now,  Lord  Gotto  of  Gozo  had  the  Park  and 
building  companies  most  of  the  land;  and  the  old 
family  had  nothing  left  of  their  wide  possessions  but 
the  Manor  Farm  and  the  Homestead,  and  The  Do- 
main in  its  high  walls.  The  three  properties,  lying  to- 
gether in  and  beyond  the  village,  were  the  oldest  part 
of  the  Gervase  estates,  Fairlands  being,  comparatively, 
a  mushroom. 

The  frowning  brick  walls,  dating  from  Tudor  times, 
still  enclosed  the  Old  Tower,  a  powerful  Norman 
structure  that  rose  above  the  wall  and  showed  a  blank, 
stony  cheek  to  the  pretty  lane.  Its  square,  uncom- 
promising strength  looked  to  even  greater  advantage 
on  the  inside,  where,  close  to  a  door  in  the  wall,  it 
jutted  out  and  made  a  deep  angle.  Its  own  door, 
arched,  deep-set,  and  of  still  solid  wood,  was  polished 
and  tempered  and  kept  in  beautiful  repair,  as  were  the 
stout  metal  fastenings  and  adornments  with  which  it 
was  reinforced.  It  was  reputed  to  be  haunted,  but 
none  alive  could  claim  to  have  seen  "anything  uglier 
than  themselves,"  as  Adams,  the  groom,  was  in  the 
habit  of  saying.  Little  use  was  made  of  it,  except  to 
store  wood  and  coal;  although  Miss  Desmond  used 
to  say,  with  envy,  that  it  could  be  made  into  such  a 
lovely  playhouse  for  the  children.  The  Domain 
children,  however,  had  never  used  it  for  any  special 
purpose  until  Hugh  Gervase  developed  a  taste  for  car- 
pentry, when  one  of  the  rooms  was  converted  into  a 
workshop. 


22      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

The  village  was  called  Lower  Domain;  the  station 
three  miles  away,  was  Fairlands.  The  railway  served 
the  new  and  well-to-do  suburb  that  had  sprung  up 
on  the  Fairlands  Manor  property — laid  out  in  highly 
desirable  building  plots  by  an  enterprising  creditor 
of  the  old  Squire's — rather  than  the  village.  Fanciful 
houses,  in  imitation  of  all  styles  old  and  new,  with 
spacious  gardens,  had  sprung  up  in  all  directions  on 
the  Manor  property.  Tennis  courts  and  sports 
grounds,  and  a  library,  were  laid  out  and  founded; 
no  shops  were  allowed.  The  community  got  its  goods 
from  London,  and  was  correspondingly  unpopular  with 
Lower  Domain. 

Lord  Gotto  of  Gozo  was  a  red-faced,  bawling  man 
whose  title  commemorated  something  in  connection 
with  some  long-forgotten  battle  at  which  he  was  said 
to  have  led  a  forlorn  hope  and  broken  through 
triumphantly.  Ill-natured  people  said  that  he  had 
scattered  a  convoy  of  cargo-boats.  He  had  shouted 
until  he  got  the  title,  and  gone  on  shouting  ever  after. 
His  wife  was  enormously  rich,  only  liked  rich  people, 
and  was  rude  to  others.  She  did  vulgar  things  be- 
cause she  chose,  not  because  she  did  not  know  better; 
and  she  invariably  said  the  most  disconcerting  things 
she  could  think  of.  The  couple  enjoyed  that  peculiar 
popularity  which  is  compounded  of  envy,  fear,  and  the 
desire  to  participate  in  the  good  things  with  which 
they  surrounded  themselves. 

There  was  no  actual  rivalry  between  the  new  com- 
munity and  the  old.  Rivalry  was  out  of  the  question. 
The  old  community  disliked  and  despised  the  new. 


STEPPING  ROUND  TO  TENTERLEY'S       23 

The  new  was  hardly  aware  of  the  existence  of  the  old, 
and  never  cast  them  a  thought.  Those  who,  like  the 
Desmonds,  planted  their  banners  nearer  to  the  village 
and  further  from  the  suburb,  threw  in  their  lot  with 
the  county  and  The  Domain,  and  thought  evil  of 
bawling  Lord  Gotto  and  his  nouveaux-riches  friends. 

Mr.  Desmond  summed  it  up  acutely. 

"Send  to  Fortnum  and  Mason's  for  a  quarter-of-a- 
pound  of  oatmeal,  or  to  the  landlord  for  a  man  to 
mend  the  tap  I  They  would  never  think  of  giving 
a  little  custom  to  old  Ned  Tipper,  or  a  day's  work  to 
Tenterley." 

Tenterley  was  a  carpenter  and  cabinet-maker.  He 
kept  all  the  beautiful  old  furniture  in  the  quaint 
houses  in  repair,  dealt  with  dry-rot  or  other  disorders 
in  the  panelling,  and  could  make  you  anything  from 
a  clothes-peg  to  a  coffin  if  required.  "Tenterley's" 
was  part  shop,  part  workroom;  and  it  was  a  recognised 
meeting-place,  for  politics,  news,  or  mere  informal 
sociability. 

The  garden  door  in  Mr.  Desmond's  garden  wall 
gave  on  to  the  lane  that  divided  Tenterley's  from 
The  Domain  garden  wall.  It  was  only  a  three  or 
four  minutes'  "step"  from  the  little  garden  door  to 
the  shop.  Miss  Desmond  waited  in  the  playroom  for 
her  brother  to  come  back;  then,  hearing  Mary,  called 
to  her  to  say  the  children  were  there.  Mary  duly 
resumed  charge;  and  cautioning  her  not  to  let  them 
play  near  the  "picture  and  risk  breaking  the  glass, 
Miss  Desmond  left  the  room  and  went  into  the  garden. 
The  flowers  in  the  house  wanted  changing;  and  those 


24      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

in  the  garden  wanted  picking  and  snipping,  and  a 
vigorous  Removal  of  dead  blossom,  and  leaf.  En- 
grossed in  the  task,  she  lingered  until  the  children's 
tea-bell  rang. 

"Half-past  five,"  she  murmured.  "I  must  get  these 
into  water.  Lucky  there  were  no  callers  to-day!" 

She  gathered  up  her  spoils  and  went  in.  Luttrell, 
evading  pursuit  by  Mary,  banged  into  her,  laughing 
and  saying  he  was  sorry  and  racing  on.  May  raced 
after  him,  calling  out,  "Mama  says  not  make  such  a 
noise!" 

Miss  Desmond  entered  the  drawing-room.  Her 
sister-in-law  was  there,  gazing  after  the  children,  a 
book  in  her  lap;  and  an  expression,  too  slight  to  be 
perplexity,  or  worry,  yet  partaking  of  both,  puckering 
her  forehead. 

"Must  do  these  flowers!"  explained  Miss  Desmond. 
"I  ought  not  to  have  left  it  so  late." 

She  proceeded  to  collect  the  wilted  flowers  in  a 
newspaper,  and  carried  them  out,  returning  for  the 
vases.  Mrs.  Desmond  watched  her,  still  with  the  faint 
expression  of  trouble. 

"Where  is  David?"  she  asked  presently. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  arranging  an 
arrogant  spray  to  better  advantage. 

"I  don't  hear  him  anywhere,"  murmured  Mrs.  Des- 
mond, helplessly.  "Wasn't  he  hanging  pictures?" 

"He  was"  answered  Miss  Desmond;  "but  he  must 
have  finished  long  ago.  There  was  only  one  more. 
He  went  to  get  more  nails,  and  I  went  to  do  the 
flowers." 


STEPPING  ROUND  TO  TENTERLEY'S       25 

She  was  just  finishing  her  floral  arrangements  when 
there  was  a  noisy  incursion  of  Lennox. 

"Oh,  M'ma,"  he  burst  forth,  excitedly,  "the  pupses 
were  so  lovely,  and  Mr.  Raymond  says  I  may  have 
one  if  you'll  let  me  have  it,  if  I  don't  have  it  too  young 
— will  you  let  me,  M'ma?" 

He  was  kissing  her  and  rumpling  his  tumbled  head 
coaxingly  against  her,  and  holding  her  with  his  rather 
grubby  hands;  and  she  smiled  absently  as  she 
answered. 

"If  your  father  lets  you,  dear,  I  don't  mind.  Will 
it  be  a  very  big  dog?  I  don't  think  a  very  big 
dog » 

"No,  M'ma,  not  very  big.  Only  half  big.  And  I'll 
teach  it  to  be  very  good.  You'll  ask  P'pa,  won't  you? 
To  let  me?" 

She  kissed  him  with  a  sudden  laugh. 

"Go  and  have  your  tea,  dear;  you  are  a  little  late, 
you  know.  Mary  won't  be  pleased.  Yes;  I'll  ask 
your  father.  I  don't  think  he  will  mind.  Gently!" 
as  he  gave  her  a  rapturous  hug.  "And  what  a  dirty 
pair  of  paws — look!  Wash  them  quickly,  dear,  and 
be  off  to  tea.  Don't  keep  Mary  waiting." 

"I  won't  be  a  minute,  M'ma,"  he  promised,  rushing 
off. 

"I  wonder  where  David  is?"  said  Mrs.  Desmond; 
and  now  she  was  genuinely  puzzled.  He  was  always 
there  for  the  children's  play  hour. 

Hubert  and  Hero,  who  had  their  tea  first,  came 
toddling  in,  fresh  and  dainty  from  a  wash,  and  de- 
manded Papa,  to  toss  them  up  to  the  ceiling.  Papa's 


26      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

absence  was  a  grievance  and  the  pucker  deepened  in 
Mrs.  Desmond's  brow. 

The  other  children  came  back  presently,  and  Mary 
arrived  to  carry  off  the  babies. 

"I  wonder  where  your  father  is?"  queried  Mrs. 
Desmond,  as  they  surrounded  her.  "Where  is  Mr. 
Desmond;  do  you  know,  Mary?" 

"No,  Ma'am,"  said  Mary,  surprised.  It  gave  her 
quite  a  turn,  she  told  Cook. 

"He  never  finished  er  picshers,"  said  Luttrell,  with 
much  emphasis;  "and  Hubert,  he  fell  and  bumpeded 
his  head,  ever  so  hard,  and  cried.  And  if  it  had  been 
on  er  glass  and  not  on  er  framed,  he'd  have  broked  it. 
Wouldn't  he,  May?" 

May  nodded,  very  vigorously,  and  endorsed  the 
verdict. 

"Not  finished  the  pictures?"  exclaimed  Miss  Des- 
mond, and  broke  off  abruptly.  It  seemed  amazing, 
and  she  tried  to  think  back. 

"No.  Er  Lost  Lamb's  still  on  er  floor  in  er 
nursery." 

"How  very  funny,"  said  Miss  Desmond,  slowly  and 
reflectively. 

"What  makes  it  funny?"  asked  Mrs.  Desmond, 
a  little  flush  showing  on  her  creamy  cheeks. 

"Well;  he  had  no  nail  that  would  do  for  that  picture 
— he  wanted  it  to  have  the  same  as  the  others,  a  long 
nail — and  there  were  none  left.  Brookes  was  at  the 
stables  and  Lennox  with  Mr.  Raymond,  and  Mary 
was  with  you  and  I  had  the  babies;  so  he  went  off 
himself  to  get  them." 


STEPPING  ROUND  TO  TENTERLEY'S       27 

"To  get  what?    Where?" 

"To  get  some  more  big  nails;  to  Tenterley's." 

"Do  you  mean  he  went  to  Tenterley's  when  Mary 
was  with  me,  and  hasn't  come  back?  That  was  before 
four!" 

"Yes.  Mary  came  back  to  the  playroom  about 
ten  minutes  after  he  had  gone,  and  I  went  out  into  the 
garden.  It  never  struck  me  he  hadn't  come  back.  I 
could  easily  not  have  heard  him  pass  in  the  garden. 
But  you  know  how  they  gossip  and  gossip  at  Tenter- 
ley's!" 

"How  strange.  He  must  have  met  someone  and 
gone  home  with  them.  He  can't  be  all  this  time  at 
Tenterley's." 

Mrs.  Desmond  was  almost  at  ease  again.  It  was 
most  unusual  for  Mr.  Desmond  not  to  be  back  for  the 
children's  play  hour,  and  still  more  unusual  for  him 
not  to  leave  word,  or  send  word,  of  his  whereabouts. 
But  it  was  hardly  disquieting. 

"I  don't  think  he  could  have  gone  home  with  any- 
one like  that,"  objected  Miss  Desmond,  her  eyes  very 
wide.  And  as  Mrs.  Desmond  looked  for  enlighten- 
ment, added: 

"He  had  on  his  green  baize  apron,  and  no  coat,  and 
no  hat,  and  his  hands  were  all  dirtied —  " 

She  stared  aghast.  Where  could  he  be,  all  this 
time,  in  that  get-up? 

The  flush  on  Mrs.  Desmond's  face  deepened.  She 
rang  the  bell,  with  determination. 

"To  Tenterley's,  did  you  say?"  she  asked  Miss 
Desmond,  who  nodded.  "Send  Brookes  down  to  Ten- 


28      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

terley's,  at  once,"  she  ordered,  when  the  maid  came, 
"and  ask  what  time  Mr.  Desmond  left  the  shop  and 
which  way  he  went." 

The  children  went  on  with  their  games,  playtime 
shorn  of  much  of  its  delight  by  the  absence  of  the 
versatile  and  amusing  Mr.  Desmond.  His  wife  and 
sister,  full  of  curiosity,  but  not  acutely  uneasy,  did 
not  discuss  his  non-appearance  further.  Lennox  took 
advantage  of  the  occasion  to  give  himself  grown-up 
airs  and  show  off  to  the  others. 

"Brookes  say,  Ma'am,  that  Tenterley  has  been  all 
day  over  at  the  Manor  Farm,  and  isn't  home  yet. 
Mrs.  Tenterley,  she  say  that  Mr.  Desmond  never 
came  near  the  shop,  not  this  afternoon." 

Moore  was  an  old  servant,  daughter  of  Mr.  Des- 
mond's nurse,  and  almost  one  of  the  family.  But  the 
two  ladies  waited  until  she  was  gone  before  discussing 
the  situation  further. 

"Thank  you,  Moore.  Is  Mary  ready  for  the 
children?  Say  good-night  and  run  along,  pets." 

They  said  good-night,  with  the  usual  protests  and 
lamentations  and  injunctions  that  Papa  was  to  be  sure 
and  come  up  and  say  it  to  them  in  bed.  Then  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Desmond  faced  each  other. 

"I  wonder  if  anything  has  happened,"  said  Mrs. 
Desmond.  Her  face  was  deadly  white,  now. 

"But  what  could  have  happened,  Honoria?"  asked 
Miss  Desmond,  half -laughing,  half -distracted.  "What 
could  have  happened,  between  here  and  Tenter- 
ley's?" 


STEPPING  ROUND  TO  TENTERLEY'S       29 

"But  he  never  got  to  Tenterley's,"  insisted  Mrs. 
Desmond. 

After  a  few  more  agitated  remarks  the  bell  was  rung 
again. 

"Moore,  will  you  and  Bcookes  go  down  the  lane  and 
search  and  see  that  the  Master  has  not  fallen  in  either 
of  the  ditches.  And  go  on  to  the  village,  and  ask  and 
see  if  anyone  saw  him  this  afternoon;  and  call  at  The 
Domain  and  at  the  Rectory,  and  at  the  Doctor's,  and 
see." 

"Yes,  Ma'am,"  said  the  amazed  Moore,  demurely. 

Brookes  wanted  to  know  what  the  Master  was  wear- 
ing, and  the  sensation  was  very  marked  when  Miss 
Desmond  described  his  condition. 

Tenterley  was  home,  but  could  add  nothing  to  his 
wife's  information.  The  Domain,  the  Rectory,  Doc- 
tor Willett's,  even  the  Blue-Nosed  Man,  were  drawn 
blank.  The  lane — as  unsinister  and  debonair  a  lane 
as  could  be — held  no  trap,  no  corpse,  no  pitfall  or  gin. 
The  expedition,  accompanied  by  Tenterley,  returned, 
shaking  off  with  difficulty  the  attentions  of  the  con- 
stable and  the  bell-man,  as  wise  as  it  started. 

Later  on  the  Rector  called  again,  to  be  quite  sure 
that  he  had  understood  Brookes's  guarded  query,  and 
to  see  if  there  were  anything  wrong.  The  actual  facts 
staggered  him;  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
When  he  left,  it  was  to  seek  Dr.  Willett,  and  consult 
with  him  about  what  was  to  be  done  without  alarming 
the  ladies.  The  two  of  them  eventually  repaired  to  the 
sleepy  little  police-station  and  arranged  to  have  the 


30      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

village  pond  dragged.    This  was  done,  with  no  results, 
at  four  o'clock  next  morning. 

By  breakfast  time  that  day,  the  whole  of  Lower 
Domain  knew  that  Mr.  Desmond  was  missing,  and 
that  the  ladies,  and  the  household  at  The  Meadows 
were  distracted  with  grief  and  anxiety. 


CHAPTER  III 

BEWILDERMENT 

THE  mysterious  circumstances,  no  less  than  the 
actual  disappearance,  threw  the  little  village  into  a 
state  of  stupefaction.  Not  only  Mr.  Desmond's  own 
family,  but  the  humble  acquaintances  who  knew  him 
as  a  fussily  kind  and  managing  neighbour  or  employer, 
took  the  matter  deeply  to  heart.  Nothing  else  was 
talked  of,  for  a  good  deal  longer  than  the  "nine  days" 
of  wonder. 

The  bewilderment,  the  utter  absence  of  explana- 
tion, the  impossibility  of  believing  either  that  any- 
thing serious  could  happen  to  Mr.  Desmond  between 
the  garden  door  and  Tenterley's;  or  that  he  could 
deliberately  absent  himself  coatless,  hatless,  and  in  a 
green  baize  apron,  made  their  brains  whirl.  Thought 
was  cut  off  from  every  avenue  of  search;  no  solution 
appeared  to  be  within  the  realms  of  credibility. 

When  at  length,  and  sorely  against  her  instincts, 
Mrs.  Desmond  was  persuaded  to  send  for  the  police; 
and  when,  after  a  day  or  two  of  futile  local  muddle 
and  messing,  a  inan  came  down  from  Scotland  Yard, 
the  tale  was  such  that  the  London  agent  would  hardly 
believe  he  was  being  told  the  whole  truth.  Like  all 

31 


32      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

the  other  puzzled  people  who  came  to  give  help  or 
advice,  the  detective  gazed  in  perplexity  at  the  picture 
of  The  Lost  Lamb  reposing  on  the  playroom  floor  be- 
side the  still  expectant  step-ladder.  Like  the  others, 
he  poked  and  pried  in  the  tool-cupboard,  still  dis- 
ordered with  the  search  for  nails.  Like  them,  he 
questioned  and  cross-questioned  the  now  terrified  Miss 
Desmond,  who  racked  her  brains  for  details  of  the 
work,  the  conversation,  and  the  minutest  incidents  "of 
the  afternoon  of  her  brother's  disappearance. 

Like  Brookes,  Tenterley,  and  the  local  constable, 
he  searched  the  lane  for  trace  or  clue.  By  this  time, 
it  was  so  trampled  back  and  forth  that  to  hope  for  a 
guiding  footmark  was  useless.  Like  them,  he  in- 
spected the  ditch  on  either  side — bordering  the  Eagle- 
ton's  tennis-court  and  The  Domain  wall  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  continuation  of  The  Meadows  wall  and 
the  bit  of  grazing  ground  that  The  Meadows  and  its 
neighbour,  The  Leas,  shared  for  their  Alderneys  on 
the  other — in  vain.  He  even  asked  and  received  per- 
mission to  make  a  thorough  search  of  The  Domain 
grounds  and  the  Old  Tower. 

Like  them  all,  he  owned  himself  baffled. 

To  the  local  constable  he  unbosomed  himself. 

"Must  have  planned  it  all,"  he  suggested.  "Sly 
old  cock." 

"Couldn't  be  done,"  said  the  local  man,  shaking  his 
head.  "Nowhere  to  hide,  or  change,  or  get  away  from. 
No  vehicle;  no  way  out  except  the  Main  Road,  Fair- 
lands,  or  the  village.  Couldn't  be  done,  not  till  after 
dark;  and  it  was  broad  daylight." 


BEWILDERMENT  33 

"If  he'd  planned  it,"  went  on  the  local  man,  after 
a  pause,  "he'd  have  had  a  bogus  letter,  from  his  stock- 
broker or  someone,  asking  him  to  run  up  to  London, 
so's  to  give  himself  time  to  get  away  without  being 
searched  for." 

"He's  done  better  than  that,"  said  the  Scotland 
Yard  man,  shaking  his  head.  "He's  got  clear  away 
while  you've  been  searching  them  lanes  and  dragging 
that  pond." 

"Well,  if  he's  done  it  on  purpose,  we've  got  no  right 
to  prevent  him,  nor  yet  to  follow  him,"  said  the  local 
man,  with  a  slight  loss  of  temper,  "so  we  can  save  our- 
self  the  trouble,  if  that's  the  way  you  look  at  it." 

"That  will  prove  to  be  about  the  way  of  it,  you 
mark  me.  And  the  family  lawyer  up  there,  and  the 
brother,  they  say  his  affairs  is  all  in  order,  and  there'll 
be  no  trouble,  nor  money  scandals — no  speculation, 
nor  embezzlement,  nor  liabilities — no  reason  at  all  to 
interfere  with  his  liberty.  It's  a  rum  go;  but  there 
you  are!" 

And  there  they  were,  and  there  they  remained. 

There  were  agitated  visits  from  Mr.  Harry  Des- 
mond, brother  of  the  vanished  gentleman,  and  Col. 
Lennox-Luttrell,  father  of  Mrs.  Desmond,  and  Mr. 
Beaumont,  family  lawyer  from  Gray's  Inn;  and  these 
gentlemen  offered  rewards  and  put  advertisements  in 
the  home  and  colonial  press  and  even  put  private 
detective  agents  ,on  to  work.  The  private  detective 
agents  were  intolerably  busy  for  a  prolonged  period. 
They  ran  on  several  false  scents,  and  annoyed  a 
number  of  perfectly  harmless  people,  and  were 


34      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

threatened  with  a  ducking  in  the  pool  by  some 
of  the  market-garden  men  whose  heavily-laden  carts 
lumbered  up  to  town  every  night  and  whose  day's 
work  began  when  other  people's  was  ending.  The 
detective  agents  concealed  themselves  under  a  tarpaulin 
on  one  of  the  carts,  to  overhear  the  conversation  of 
possible  accomplices  in  the  Desmond  crime;  but  mar- 
ket-garden men  are  not  chatterers  and  spend  most  of 
their  time  on  the  road  in  sleep,  trusting  to  their  horses. 
An  irrepressible  cough  gave  the  detective  agents  away. 

The  Desmond  family  had  much  difficulty  in  dis- 
sociating themselves  from  this  supposed  attempt  to 
prove  that  the  market-garden  carters  were  of  murder- 
ous tendencies.  A  quiet,  law-abiding,  slumbrous  class, 
these  men  were;  and  popular.  The  private  detective 
agents  slackened  in  their  zeal  after  the  uproar,  and 
faded  discreetly  from  the  scene,  to  start  fresh  scents 
elsewhere;  and  the  reputation  for  lynx-eyed  vigilance 
and  acumen  attributed  to  them  by  certain  writers  of 
romance  not  based  on  true  life,  faded  with  them. 

And  by  degrees,  the  search  died  down. 

"It  do  be  the  quarest  thing  I  ever  heerd  tell  of," 
said  the  bell-man,  to  one  of  the  informal  gatherings 
at  Tenterley's;  "and  it  do  be  quare,  too,  that  I 
shouldn't  be  a-belling  of  him.  It  do'ent  se-am  right, 
not  to  be  a-belling  of  him." 

"It's  a  tur'ble  bad  business,"  said  Tenterley,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "A  gennleman  like  that,  so  simple  and 
straight-forrard  in  his  ways  and  so  reg'lar — not  one  of 
the  kind's  allays  running  up  to  Lunnon  or  off  to  Boo- 
long,  like  some  of  them  there  over  to  Fairlands.  A 


BEWILDERMENT  35 

nice,  God-fearing  gennleman,  as  gooed  to  Church  twice't 
every  Sunday,  and  so  took  up  with  his  missus  and  his 
childer— " 

"What  I  wants  to  know  is,  where's  he  gone  and 
how's  he  gone,"  said  the  postman,  sententiously.  His 
profession  gave  him  a  poor  opinion  of  human  nature. 

"When  you  seen  all  the  love-letters  /  seen,"  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  saying,  darkly;  as  one  to  whom  the  secrets 
of  the  public  were  laid  bare. 

"There's  lots  would  like  to  know  that,  Bill  Black. 
If  us  knew  that,  there'd  be  no  more  to  know." 

Bill  Black  said  "Ah!"  with  intense  significance,  and 
a  sort  of  I-could-but-an-I-would  expression. 

"He's  gorn  off  with  a  gay  loydy,  if  you  arst  me," 
grinned  the  coalman.  He,  too,  had  few  illusions. 

"What  did  /  say?"  asked  Bill  Black,  of  no  one  in 
particular. 

"In  a  green  baize  apron,  wi'out's  coat  and  a-nammer 
in  'is  'and?"  enquired  Tenterley,  incredulously.  "Goo 
on!" 

"More  likely,  he's  been  done  to  his  death  with  the 
hammer,"  suggested  the  schoolmaster.  With  the 
organist,  a  quiet  little  man  who  loved  gossip,  he  had 
dropped  in  to  hear  what  was  being  said  on  the  topic 
that  was  engrossing  everyone's  attention. 

Tenterley  wagged  a  foreboding  head. 

"Foul  play,  I'm  feared,  Mr.  Turton.    You're  right." 

"Foul  play?  •  But  never  a  mark,  or  a  sign,  or  a  scrap 
of  anything  torn,  or  a  drop  of  blood !  No  place  where 
there  are  signs  of  a  struggle,  or  where  a  body  has  lain 
— and  it  is  fairly  soft  underfoot,  still,  after  last  week's 


36      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

rain.  How  could  he  be  got  away,  or  disposed  of,  with- 
out signs?" 

Thus  the  organist,  not  sceptically,  but  searchingly. 

"That's  a  fac',"  agreed  the  coalman,  who  was  flip- 
pantly disposed.  "And  as  he  culdn't  a-bin  carried  off, 
he  must  a-walked.  Took  his  'ook,  on  his  own  shankses 
—that's  what  he  did." 

"Where  to,  and  how  didn't  noobody  see  him? 
There's  only  through  village  here  to  Somerton,  and  all 
the  girls  coming  back  that  way  from  Soap  Works,  and 
up  Fairlands  to  station.  And  then  there's  the  Main 
Roo-ad,  miles  of  it,  to  Slatford.  And  noobody  to  see 
him?  Goo  on." 

"Must  have  been  taken  up  to  Heaving  in  a  Chariot 
of  Fire,"  said  the  postman,  solemnly;  and  though  they 
were  all  a  trifle  shocked,  they  laughed.  Postman,  he 
don't  care  for  nothing  nor  nobody.  He'll  come  to  a 
bad  end,  surelye;  said  the  village. 

"They  do  tell,"  began  the  bell-man,  clearing  his 
throat,  "that  there  wuz  a  picter  fell.  It  do  be  power- 
ful onlucky,  fur  picters  to  fall.  I  mind,  when  th'  old 
Squire — the  old  'un  afore  this  'un — died  so  sudden- 
like,  there  wuz  a  picter  fell.  It  be  allers  onlucky, 
they  do  tell.  The  servants,  up  to  The  Meadows,  they 
do  be  pruperly  frightened." 

"Pure  superstition,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
promptly,  sniffing  up  the  breeze  of  battle.  "It  was 
the  picture  falling  that  set  him  to  work,  and  that  sent 
him  out  for  nails;  that's  all  that  had  to  do  with  it,  but 
it  might  have  been  anything  else!  But  if  people  can 
think  something  foolish,  you  may  depend  on  it  they 


BEWILDERMENT  37 

will.  I'd  like  to  give  those  servants  a  bit  of  my 
mind." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  in  response;  whether  of 
assent  or  dissent  was  not  plain.  The  bell-man,  uncon- 
vinced, continued  to  mutter, 

"There  wuz  a  picter  fell,  anyway,  and  I  allers  heered 
tell  it  were  powerful  onlucky." 

"Sooperstitions  is  queer  things,"  said  Tenterley,  in 
a  non-committal  fashion. 

"An'  so's  disappearances,"  said  the  flippant  coalman. 

"Do  ee  mind  Jack  Bowman?"  nudging  the  postman 
with  a  coally  elbow,  whose  contact  caused  the  post- 
man to  dust  his  uniform  sleeve  carefully. 

"I  got  to  account  to  Gov'ment  for  my  uniform!" 
he  remarked,  resentfully.  "Yes.  I  'member  Jack 
Bowman.  Did  a  guy  with  that  yalleraired  gurl  of 
Meddon's,  as  purtended  she'd  gorn  to  sarvice.  You 
aren't  thinking — ?" 

"Thinking's  free,"  replied  the  coalman,  with  an 
unholy  smirk. 

"Pos'man,  he  laugh  at  everything,"  began  Amos 
Johnstone,  harking  back.  He  was  rich  Farmer  John- 
stone's  brother  who  had  been  sold  up,  whom  Farmer 
Johnstone  had  taken  on,  at  very  stingy  terms,  to  work 
the  market-garden  side  of  the  farm  work.  "Mr.  Des- 
mond, he  were  a  gentleman,  as  Tenterley  here  knows 
full  well.  He  wouldn't  a-played  a  dirty  game  like  that, 
he  wouldn't." 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  dirty  games,"  ex- 
postulated the  postman,  grinning.  "What's  there  dirty 
about  a  Chariot  of  Fire?  If  'twere  good  enough  for 


38      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

'Lijah,  Mr.  Desmond  might  be  proud  to  be  seen  in  it." 

"Only  he  wuzn't  seen  in  it,"  objected  the  bell-man. 

"That's  our  loss,"  said  the  cynical  coalman. 

Old  Johnstone  took  this  ill,  and  the  subject  dropped. 
It  was  felt  to  be  a  trifle  personal  and  delicate.  John- 
stone  had  a  son  who  was  a  wild  'un;  he  had  been  per- 
emptorily sacked  by  the  older  Johnstone  for  his  un- 
handsome dealings  with  the  market  produce  and  had 
disappeared  too — not  mysteriously  like  Mr.  Desmond, 
but  disgracefully. 

Everyone  was  sorry  for  Amos  Johnstone.  He  was 
a  harmless,  sorrowful  man,  widowed  and  lonely;  and 
the  rich  brother  was  a  hard  master  and  close-fisted. 

The  schoolmaster  and  the  organist  strolled  away  to- 
gether, continuing  the  discussion  by  fits  and  starts  as 
they  went. 

"It  really  is  a  mystery,"  reflected  Turton.  "Isn't  it? 
There  doesn't  seem  any  possible  solution.  One's 
common-sense  recoils  from  any  suggestion  that  can  be 
made!" 

"And  one's  common-sense  recoils  equally  from  the 
idea  that  there  is  no  solution,"  responded  little  Brown- 
ing. "Funny  how  the  uneducated  mind  fixes  on  the 
supernatural.  'A  picter  fell.'  How  they  love  any- 
thing like  that!" 

"Fools,"  said  Turton,  with  heat. 

"And  yet  a  picture  did  fall,"  laughed  Browning, 
"and  led  to  the  most  extraordinary  mystery  and  dis- 
aster. At  least,  it  may  be  neither,  of  course,  because 
the  man  may  turn  up  any  moment.  He  can't  really 
be  very  far  off!" 


BEWILDERMENT  39 

"I  have  very  little  expectation  that  he  is  alive," 
said  Turton,  sombrely. 

Browning  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  observed, 
"I  am  sorry  for  those  two  poor  ladies.  Dreadful  for 
them." 

And  so  it  was — dreadful. 

No  trace  of  the  missing  Mr.  Desmond  was  found. 
The  minutest  search  revealed  nothing  that  led  to  any 
conclusion.  No  inquiries  produced  results.  No  clue 
was  unearthed,  no  solution  discovered.  It  remained  an 
absolute,  impenetrable  mystery,  as  baffling  as  The 
Sphinx.  None  could  shed  light  on  it;  and  the  fate  of 
the  missing  man  remained  unknown  and  as  time  rolled 
on  was  quoted,  with  unction,  as  one  of  the  famous 
disappearances  which  have  defeated  detective  in- 
genuity. 

Opinion  wavered.  Some,  who  only  knew  Mr.  Des- 
mond slightly,  believed  him  to  have  been  sly  and  faith- 
less and  the  tainted  hero  of  an  unsavoury  romance. 
Others,  like  the  Rector,  the  staunch  Turton  and 
Browning,  Tenterley,  and  the  whole  household  at  The 
Meadows,  believed  him  to  be  the  victim  of  a  murder- 
ous outrage.  To  them,  Mrs.  and  Miss  Desmond  gave 
their  warmest  gratitude.  Others,  again,  favoured  a 
theory  of  mental  aberration;  and  some  just  loved  the 
whole  story  for  its  mystery  and  its  endless  and  lurid 
possibilities.  It  was  discussed  over  many  a  fireside, 
and  struck  terror  and  dismay  into  many  timid  hearts. 
And  by  degrees  it  became  an  old  story,  dimly  remem- 
bered, to  be  from  time  to  time  revived,  discussed  and 
again  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME 

FIFTEEN  years  passed,  slowly  obliterating  with  their 
ceaseless  grinding  the  sharp  edges  of  recollection. 
Young  folk  grew  to  maturity;  maturity  withered  to 
age.  The  grave  garnered  its  usual  harvest,  and  eter- 
nity replenished  as  it  stripped  the  world,  with  green 
lives  to  replace  the  sere  and  yellow.  Change  and  de- 
cay, birth  and  death,  the  immutable  laws,  took  their 
accustomed  toll,  leaving  none  untouched. 

Fifteen  years  made  a  considerable  difference  to  the 
Desmond  family.  Lennox  was  twenty-six  and  married, 
with  two  children,  having  followed  the  tradition  of 
early  marriage  in  his  father's  family.  Luttrell  was  at 
Oxford;  May  had  just  come  home  from  a  trip  on  the 
Continent.  The  twins  were  between  seventeen  and 
eighteen,  inseparable  when  not  at  their  respective 
schools,  and  full  of  life  and  spirits. 

The  whole  family  was  remarkable  for  good  looks. 
Between  Mr.  Desmond's  English  fairness  and  Mrs. 
Desmond's  copper  and  russet,  a  scale  of  colouring  had 
been  evolved  that  was  arresting.  Lennox  was  the 
darkest,  with  reddish  moustache  and  chestnut  hair,  a 

40 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME  41 

rich  colour  and  bright,  hard  blue  eyes.  Without  be- 
ing handsome,  he  was  of  most  attractive  appearance 
and  manner,  which  cloaked  the  domineering,  carping 
nature  from  the  observation  of  acquaintances.  May 
was  her  aunt  Hermione  over  again,  her  freshness  and 
youth,  and  red,  white,  and  yellow  spring-time  colour- 
ing making  the  older  lady  look  faded  by  contrast. 
Luttrell  was  an  engaging  youth  with  roguish  grey  eyes 
and  yellow  hair  and  the  most  girlish  red  lips  and  little 
white  teeth;  the  twins  were  corn-coloured  as  to  hair, 
peach-like  as  to  skin,  and  with  eyes  as  blue  as  flax- 
blossom.  They  were  all  tall  and  well-made,  Luttrell 
being  the  smallest.  All  were  addicted  to  sports;  and 
what  they  did  they  did  well. 

But  the  beauty  of  the  family  was  undeniably  Kythe, 
born  close  on  nine  months  after  her  father's  disappear- 
ance. She  had  masses  of  soft  fawn  hair  with  yellow 
streaks,  eyes  a  rich  blue-grey  with  dark  fawn  lashes 
and  thick  smooth  brows,  skin  creamy  and  smooth  like 
her  mother's,  and  perfect  teeth.  She  was  going  to  be 
a  beauty;  with  her  looks  and  an  elusive,  aloof,  dreamy 
something  that  recalled  her  mother  but  yet  had  an 
entirely  individual  charm.  No  one  quite  understood 
Kythe,  or  had  ever  "found  out  about  her,  inside,"  as 
Hero  complained.  She  was,  beyond  question,  her 
mother's  favourite,  and  Mrs.  Desmond  followed  her 
movements  with  pathetic  questing  eyes. 

Aunt  Hermione  had  never  married.  Mrs.  Desmond 
clung  so  to  her,  during  the  years  of  her  bitter  trouble, 
that  she  put  aside  all  idea  of  leaving  the  poor  woman. 
The  only  offer  to  do  so  was  not,  it  must  be  owned, 


42      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

overwhelmingly  attractive;  but  it  was  averred  that  the 
Rector,  now  a  widower,  was  waiting  his  chance.  Aunt 
Hermione  was  still  a  very  good-looking  woman,  with 
a  whimsical  outlook  on  life  that  made  her  extremely 
good  company.  The  household  relied  on  her  far  more 
than  on  its  mistress. 

Mary  was  now  the  young  ladies'  maid,  instead  of 
nurse,  and  Moore  was  still  parlour-maid,  grey,  wrin- 
kled, but  indefatigable.  Cook  was  dead,  and  her 
niece,  the  kitchen-maid,  succeeded  to  her  place  and  her 
emoluments. 

Brookes  had  an  assistant,  young  Tenterley,  whose 
father  still  made  and  mended  for  the  neighbourhood, 
though  the  encroachments  of  trades  unionism  were  be- 
ginning to  create  difficulties  for  him.  He  had  been 
called  a  "black  leg"  in  the  bar  of  The  Blue-Nosed 
Man;  and  although  the  landlord  had  interfered  hotly 
and  made  the  unmannerly  agitator  go  elsewhere  to 
agitate,  Tenterley  was  "shook."  So  he  expressed  it. 

The  Meadows  had  been  subjected  to  various  mod- 
ern improvements — electric  light,  two  more  bath- 
rooms, new  fire  grates,  and  gas  stoves  for  cooking  in 
summer.  It  was  a  charming  house.  Mrs.  Desmond's 
step-mother,  a  soulless  person,  had  urged  her  to  leave 
the  neighbourhood  and  "get  away  from  depressing  in- 
fluences"; but  nothing  would  induce  Mrs.  Desmond 
to  move. 

She  was  much  changed.  After  Kythe's  birth,  she 
resumed  life  with  two  broad  streaks  of  snow-white  hair 
above  her  temples.  The  babies  occupied  her  much, 
and  she  insisted  on  having  almost  sole  care  of  the 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME  43 

new  arrival.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  reading;  but 
books  would  lie  open  in  her  lap,  the  pages  unturned, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  Her  looks  remained;  even 
as  she  aged,  she  aged  becomingly. 

She  would  go  for  slow  walks,  alone  if  possible,  but 
later  accompanied  by  Kythe;  standing  at  places  where 
roads  met,  or  at  any  corner,  crowded  or  otherwise,  and 
looking  round  and  about  as  if  in  search.  In  later 
years  she  contracted  the  habit  of  holding  long  conver- 
sations with  herself,  sometimes  almost  audibly;  and 
accompanying  these  monologues  with  suitable  ges- 
tures, facial  and  otherwise,  and  movements  of  her  head 
and  hands,  entirely  oblivious  of  her  surroundings.  It 
was  these  peculiarities  that  gave  rise  to  a  wide-spread 
belief  that  the  poor  lady's  mind  was  unhinged. 

It  was  not  so;  but  it  all  made  Lennox  very  angry. 
He  was  often  irritable  with  his  mother  and  not  infre- 
quently rude  to  her.  Grown-up,  he  allowed  himself 
a  tone  of  sarcastic  banter  that  made  his  aunt  feel 
murderous. 

Every  year  when  the  dreadful  day  came  round,  Mrs. 
Desmond  shut  herself  up,  only  appearing  at  meals. 
This  never  failed  to  anger  Lennox,  who  called  it  mor- 
bid, and  idiotic,  and  said  it  got  on  his  nerves.  Once 
he  denounced  it  as  sentimental  self-indulgence;  but 
his  aunt  dealt  so  faithfully  with  him  that  he  never  said 
that  again.  > 

The  brothers  and  sisters  chafed  under  Lennox's  hard 
yoke.  He  everlastingly  reminded  them  that  he  was 
head  of  the  family  in  the  absence  of  his  father;  and 
he  made  strong  efforts  to  set  aside  the  dominion  of 


44      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Aunt  Hermione.  He  lived  in  the  Temple  and  came 
down,  with  his  wife  and  babies,  every  week-end,  "to 
see  how  things  were  getting  on,"  giving  orders  liberally, 
and  interfering  with  the  outside  men  servants  when 
he  could  not  do  so  with  the  inside  women.  Even 
Mary,  who  had  always  adored  him,  had  been  heard  to 
declare  that  Master  Lennox  do  take  a  lot  on  himself, 
and  that's  a  fact. 

There  was  a  row  royal  between  the  brothers  when 
Luttrell  came  home  and  found  the  room  he  had  oc- 
cupied from  boyhood  converted  into  a  night  nursery 
for  Lennox's  babies,  without  anyone's  sanction  having 
been  obtained,  Aunt  Hermione  being  away  for  a  short 
visit.  Nothing  was  sacred  to  Lennox  and  his  wife. 
Their  visits  were  difficult  times,  times  all  too  often  of 
strain  and  irritation. 

The  fifteenth  anniversary  of  Mr.  Desmond's  disap- 
pearance was  upon  them;  and  Lennox,  as  he  fre- 
quently did,  announced  his  intention  of  coming  down 
for  that  day — a  Friday — to  begin  his  week-end.  He 
hated  the  day;  but  enjoyed  an  opportunity  of  protest- 
ing against  what  he  disapproved  of.  Mrs.  Desmond 
heard  of  the  decision  with  a  sigh. 

Every  September  the  bitter-sweet  past  returned  to 
her,  overwhelming  in  its  poignant  appeal.  The  dear, 
dear  days  when  David  hammered,  and  whistled,  and 
wheeled  wheel-barrows  and  plied  the  garden  mower  or 
the  garden  roller  or  the  garden  shears,  or  put  in  panes 
of  glass,  or  invented  patent  foot-rests  for  her  chair; 
and  romped  with  his  children,  and  read  her  amusing 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME  45 

tit-bits  from  the  paper  at  night;  and  knelt  beside  her 
low  chair  in  their  own  room  before  getting  into  bed, 
rubbing  his  boyish  head  against  hers  and  kissing  her 
throat  and  saying,  "Ready,  darling!  Come  along"; 
or  "How  lovely  your  hair  looks  to-night!  What  have 
you  been  touching  it  up  with,  you  sly  pet?"  or  some 
such  tender  nonsense — how  long  ago  they  were !  How 
she  missed  him.  O  God,  how  she  had  missed  him! 

She  had  nothing  to  reproach  herself  with.  She  had 
loved  him  truly  and  passionately,  had  given  him  all  a 
woman  could  give,  and  no  shadow  had  ever  darkened 
their  devotion  and  their  confidence.  Her  immersion 
in  books  had  never  annoyed  or  disconcerted  him;  and 
he  had  never  lacked  sympathy  and  understanding,  for 
her  or  from  her.  They  had  suited  each  other  per- 
fectly. The  thunderbolt  that  had  broken  their  lives 
in  sunder  was  still  inexplicable,  still  utterly  without 
source  or  reason;  unintelligible. 

She  remembered  every  detail  vividly.  One  of  her 
secret  and  most  profound  sorrows  was  the  knowledge 
that  these  details  had  grown  blurred  and  dim  to  others, 
and  to  no  one  but  her  was  it  any  longer  a  matter  of 
passionate  feeling.  She  longed  to  keep  it  alive;  yet 
to  no  one  could  she  confide  all  she  panted  to  say.  A 
dumb  spirit  held  her  in  thrall.  Kythe,  Hero  and 
Hubert,  ought  to  know  about  it,  be  interested  in  it, 
be  able  to  tell  their  children  about  it;  but  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  discuss  it  with  them.  They  might 
think  or  feel  like  Lennox.  That  would  be  unendurable. 

She  knew  Lennox  took  the  view  that  his  father  had 


46      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

gone  off  willingly  and  abscondingly.  The  knowledge 
stood  between  her  and  her  first-born  like  the  Angel 
with  the  flaming  sword. 

"We  were  so  proud  of  our  baby,"  she  remembered, 
with  unavailing  regret.  "How  David  loved  to  see  him 
laugh.  He  invented  a  rocker — that  never  would  rock. 
Why  has  our  son  turned  out  like  this,  so  hard  and 
unbelieving?" 

Of  Luttrell's  mind  she  knew  less;  but  realised  that 
his  brother's  views  had  been  put  to  him  ruthlessly. 

How  kind  everyone  had  been,  she  sighed.  Her 
brother-in-law,  who  had  since  made  pots  of  money  and 
come  to  live  on  the  Fairlands  Manor  property — he 
had  been  ever  so  kind  and  helpful,  coming  to  live  there 
mainly  to  be  of  use  to  her.  Such  a  comfort,  he  was, 
with  various  matters  in  regard  to  the  boys  and  their 
schools. 

About  business,  too.  He  had  arranged  for  money 
to  be  advanced,  and  had  tided  her  over  a  most  diffi- 
cult time  with  great  tact  and  generosity.  The  money 
position  had  been  most  difficult;  but  Mrs.  Desmond's 
own  father  had  helped. 

How  angry  he  was!  Her  father — not  Harry  Des- 
mond— Col.  Lennox-Luttrell.  He  lived  in  the  South 
of  France  with  his  second  wife,  a  card-playing  lady 
of  considerable  means.  Mrs.  Desmond  was  his  only 
child,  and  he  came  flying  over  to  England  on  the  first 
hint  of  his  daughter's  having  been  "badly  treated"  by 
the  rascal  she  had  married.  The  •  situation,  when  he 
arrived  at  it,  struck  even  his  irascible  volubility  dumb. 
He  was  a  vehement  exponent  of  the  murder  and  out- 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME  47 

rage  theory,  converted  to  enthusiastic  belief  in  the 
honour  of  his  son-in-law  by  the  generous  and  devoted 
helpfulness  of  Harry  and  Hermione  Desmond. 

"Awfully  fine  people,"  he  assured  his  many  cronies. 
"Splendid  characters.  He  couldn't  have  done  any- 
thing crooked,  one  of  that  family.  Money  affairs  in 
perfect  order,  every  penny  left  to  Honoria  and  her 
children,  not  a  paper  or  a  letter  of  the  least  equivocal 
kind — not  a  thing  that  required  explanation.  Amaz- 
ing. Amazing." 

His  whole-hearted  championship  of  her  David 
warmed  his  daughter's  sore  heart;  and  when  he  died 
a  year  later,  leaving  her  very  comfortably  off,  she  felt 
doubly  forlorn  and  bereaved. 

The  substantial  income  which  she  inherited  enabled 
her  to  hold  out  against  the  often-repeated  suggestion 
that  she  should  make  an  application  to  have  her  hus- 
band's death  presumed.  Since  coming  of  age,  Lennox 
had  pressed  hard  for  this,  and  even  threatened  to  do  it 
without  her  consent.  She  had,  at  last,  told  him  sternly 
that  if  he  did,  he  should  never  set  foot  in  the  house 
again;  and  as,  under  the  will,  the  house  would  be  hers, 
he  forbore,  with  a  bad  grace,  and  left  the  subject. 

So  sore  did  this  leave  her,  and  so  deep  the  breach 
between  her  and  her  son,  that  she  was  unhappy  for 
days.  At  last  she  wrote  to  him  and  promised  that  if 
nothing  transpired  by  then,  she  would  make  the  ap- 
plication when  Lennox  should  be  thirty;  and  he  wrote 
back,  expressing  his  satisfaction,  and  asking  her  par- 
don for  having  hurt  her. 

How  the  old  memories  stirred  and  struggled,  as  this 


48      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

anniversary  came  round.  She  remembered  the  inso- 
lent stare  of  Lady  Gotto  of  Gozo,  who  drove  past  her 
and  pointed  her  out;  all  the  carriageful  of  smart  peo- 
ple turning  their  heads  to  stare.  She  remembered  the 
weeping  sympathy  of  the  old  servants,  the  kindly  offer- 
ings sent  by  the  villagers,  the  gruffly  expressed  con- 
dolences of  the  market-garden  men,  the  curiosity  of 
little  May  when  she  heard  some  ribald  remark  about 
her  father  having  gone  off  with  his  light  o'  love,  and 
the  child's  searching  queries  in  respect  of  this  new 
phrase.  She  remembered  those  long,  long,  lonely 
nights,  wide-eyed,  with  the  unceasing  rumble  of 
market-garden  waggons  plodding  their  way  to  town, 
as  she  lay  listening,  hoping,  wearying.  She  remem- 
bered her  first  pitched  battle  with  Lennox,  when  she 
realised  what  his  opinion  was.  She  remembered  the 
Rector's  unshaken  friendship  and  companionship,  and 
the  hours  his  gentle  wife  took  charge  of  the  older  and 
more  noisy  children.  And  the  visit — the  very  first 
visit — of  Lady  Katherine  Gervase,  wife  of  the  old 
Squire  at  The  Domain.  The  frigid,  exclusive,  pre- 
maturely aged  woman  came,  in  an  impulse  of  neigh- 
bourliness,  to  express  her  deep  regret  at  the  blow  that 
had  fallen  on  the  adjacent  household. 

"I  knew  your  husband  by  sight,  Mrs.  Desmond,  and 
I  am  sure — I  count  myself  a  good  judge — he  was  in- 
capable of  baseness  or  intrigue.  He  has  been  the  vic- 
tim of  some  terrible  outrage.  Heaven  grant  the  crim- 
inals may  be  brought  to  justice." 

Lady  Katherine  called  on  no  one;  and  this  spon- 
taneous act  and  tribute  was  most  comforting. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TIME  49 

Since  then,  relations  between  The  Meadows  and 
The  Domain  had  remained  pleasantly  friendly,  ripen- 
ing of  late  into  cordiality.  Lady  Katherine  had  highly 
approved  of  the  dignity  and  reserve  with  which  Mrs. 
Desmond  met  her  trouble  and  her  staunch  loyalty  to 
the  missing  man.  She  rarely  made  a  new  friend,  and 
never  dropped  one;  from  that  time  no  social  observ- 
ance that  would  accentuate  the  fact,  that  Mrs.  Des- 
mond of  The  Meadows  was  a  friend  of  Lady  Kath- 
erine's,  was  ever  omitted  on  either  side. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  DOMAIN 

SQUIRE  GERVASE  died  five  years  after  Mr.  Desmond 
disappeared.  The  tedium  of  his  long  illness  was  some- 
what lightened  by  the  visits  of  Mrs.  Desmond  and  her 
family,  who  by  a  process  of  elimination,  became  al- 
most the  only  neighbours,  excepting  the  Raymonds, 
and  the  Leighs  of  the  Manor  Farm,  whom  The  Do- 
main recognised  as  gentry  and  received  as  visitors. 
With  his  death,  the  tie  between  the  elder  lady  and 
the  younger  became  closer. 

"It  is  the  best  part  of  myself  gone,"  said  Lady 
Katherine,  curtly.  "You  know.  Nothing  much  seems 
worth  while,  now.  I  have  not  even  his  children  to 
bring  up,  as  you  have.  That  is  all  finished." 

Mrs.  Desmond  understood,  and  her  heart  ached 
afresh,  for  herself  and  her  friend. 

"His  sufferings  are  over,"  said  Aunt  Hermione  to 
her  sister-in-law.  "It  was  dreadful  to  see  him  so 
crippled,  and  wincing  with  pain.  And  he  looked  so  as 
if  the  family  troubles  had  been  too  much  for  him.  I 
never  saw  a  man  with  so  much  the  look  of  mental  dis- 
tress eating  him  away." 

"Did  he  strike  you  like  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Desmond. 

50 


THE  DOMAIN  51 

"I  always  thought — he  had  something  on  his  mind." 
"Something  special,  do  you  mean?    Or  just  general?" 
"I  never  could  make  up  my  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Des- 
mond, absently.    "He  had  some  great  distress.    It 
never  left  him." 

"Well,  he  had  enough  to  worry  him,  poor  man.  And 
they  have  always  taken  their  troubles  hard,  about 
money  and  everything  else." 

Squire  Gervase  and  Lady  Katherine  had  two  sons. 
The  eldest  was  killed  in  a  North-West  Frontier  cam- 
paign; the  second  went  to  Australia,  after  the  failure 
of  the  family  finances.  There  he  made  a  desperate 
struggle  to  succeed  in  an  environment  totally  unsuited 
to  him.  His  wife  was  half  Creole,  a  Catholic;  half- 
educated,  too,  and  wholly  impossible  to  bring  home  to 
The  Domain.  The  marriage  was  a  further  blow  to 
the  proud  old  man. 

The  Creole  lady,  apparently,  had  gleams  of  percep- 
tion, for  she  wrote,  an  illiterate  scrawl,  saying  she 
knew  she  could  not  bring  her  sons  up  well,  that  she 
was  too  busy  to  bother  and  there  were  no  good  schools; 
and  that  if  the  old  man  liked  he  could  have  the  boys  to 
bring  up  himself  in  the  old  place. 

The  Squire  jumped  at  this.  The  boys  were  sent 
home,  one  a  well-grown  youngster,  who  could  shoot, 
ride,  and  do  many  things  that  surprised  the  grand- 
father; the  other  a  small  frightened  thing  several  years 
younger,  in  deadly  terror  of  the  sister  who,  quite  un- 
expectedly, accompanied  and  chaperoned  them — a 
black-browed,  frowning  imp  who  bit  and  kicked  like 
a  colt  under  any  attempt  at  coercion.  She  was  the 


52      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

eldest  of  the  three  and  was  of  ungovernable  temper 
and  totally  impervious  to  rebuke. 

They  went  to  school,  and  both  lads  were  destined 
for  the  Army.  The  eldest,  Hugh,  married  a  horse 
trainer's  daughter  while  at  Sandhurst,  and  joined  in 
her  father's  business.  He  was  weak  rather  than 
vicious;  and  his  associates  were  shady.  His  name  fig- 
ured later  in  a  suit  relating  to  the  pulling  of  some 
horses  by  boys  in  his  employ.  The  disgrace  of  it  hit 
the  old  Squire  hard.  He  never  held  up  his  head  again, 
and  would  hear  no  excuse  for  his  grandson. 

The  second  grandson,  Arthur,  did  well  and  went 
well,  and  made  up  in  some  measure  for  other  disap- 
pointments. He  was  dearly  loved  by  Lady  Katherine 
and  the  old  Squire  and  was  looked  on  as  the  heir,  to 
the  exclusion  of  his  father  and  elder  brother. 

News  of  the  father's  death  in  Australia  brought 
fresh  distress.  Driven  to  drink  by  his  wife's  almost 
open  infidelities,  he  died  in  his  cups,  the  widow  then 
marrying  one  of  his  farm  hands.  This  man  kept  her 
straight  from  sheer  terror,  by  flogging  and  the  most 
brutal  threats;  and  Hugh,  engrossed  in  the  horse- 
training  business,  allowed  the  precious  pair  to  run  the 
Australian  station  for  him.  The  knowledge  was  bit- 
ter to  the  old  people  at  The  Domain,  who  could  not 
check  the  flood  of  gossip  emanating  from  young  Hugh's 
grooms,  stable-hands  and  racing  and  betting  associates, 
all  of  whom  seemed  to  be  in  the  intimate  confidence  of 
his  wife's  relations  and  friends.  The  training  estab- 
lishment, it  must  be  explained,  was  in  the  inconveniently 
near  neighbourhood  of  Lower  Domain;  and  although 


THE  DOMAIN  53 

Hugh  made  no  effort  to  force  his  presence  on  his  fam- 
ily, there  were  frequent  embarrassing  encounters. 

And  worst  of  all  was  the  girl,  Teresa.  Frantic 
scenes  and  rows  scandalised  the  grave  household; 
pranks  of  unheard-of  levity  resulted  in  expulsion  from 
school  at  fifteen;  no  form  of  authority  gained  her 
respect  or  submission.  Lady  Katherine  owned  to  Mrs. 
Desmond,  on  the  one  occasion  on  which  she  discussed 
her  grand-daughter,  that  she  had  no  knowledge  en- 
abling her  to  handle  or  influence  a  girl  of  that  type. 

"There  was  nothing  for  it,"  she  sighed,  "but  to  send 
her  back  to  her  mother.  As  the  step-father  was  able 
to  manage  her,  he  might  also  be  successful  with  her 
daughter.  At  all  events,  I  thought  he  ought  to  try,  as 
the  kind  of  scandal  she  was  likely  to  bring  about  our 
ears  here  was  more  than  I  could  contemplate.  They 
were  going  to  send  her  to  a  convent  where  there  was 
very  strict  discipline,  we  understood;  but  I  have  no 
notion  if  the  experiment  turned  out  well  or  ill." 

Mrs.  Desmond  received  these  confidences,  on  the 
only  occasion  the  subject  had  been  broached,  as  not 
to  be  revealed.  She  was  much  surprised,  therefore,  to 
find  that  the  story  had  also  been  told  to  the  Rector; 
and  he  surmised  that  the  plan  had  not  worked  well 
and  that  Lady  Katherine  could  not  still  her  self- 
reproaches. 

"How  could  she  help  it?"  murmured  Mrs.  Desmond. 
"I  cannot  see  that  it  is  her  fault.  She  did  her  best." 

"She  did  indeed,"  said  the  Rector;  "and  it  is  enough 
to  shake  one's  trust  in  Providence  to  see  such  unde- 
served sorrow  and  affliction  fall  on  people  like  that, 


54      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

whose  only  concern  has  been  to  uphold  a  high  stand- 
ard of  honour  and  righteousness.  If  we  were  all  like 
that " 

"They  are  dear  people,"  said  Aunt  Hermione.  "But 
sometimes,  Mr.  Raymond,  for  my  personal  taste,  I  like 
something  a  little  less  unbending — just  for  every-day 
wear,  you  know.  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  be  wicked — " 

"I  wonder  how  you  would  set  about  it,  if  you  did?" 
he  laughed. 

"It  would  depend  on  how  the  fancy  took  me,"  she 
tossed  back.  "I  might  begin  in  church,  imitating  that 
new  curate  of  yours.  Why  don't  you  give  him  breath- 
ing exercises  and  cure  that  snuffle?  And  why  do  you 
let  him  say,  'O  Lord,  shave  the  Queen'?" 

"Is  he  as  bad  as  that?"  said  the  Rector.  "Dear, 
dear.  I  really  must  listen.  I  have  got  so  in  the  habit 
of  relying  on  them  for  a  little  sleep — " 

They  all  laughed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING 

IT  was  about  six  years  after  the  Squire  died  that 
two  strange  bits  of  news  came  to  be  told  on  the  same 
day.  Luttrell  came  in,  white,  excited  and  mysterious. 

"I  say,  Aunt  Hermione,  I  want  to  speak  to  you," 
he  whispered,  breathlessly. 

She  followed  him  into  the  playroom.  It  was  still 
called  so. 

"They  have  found  a  body,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"Dug  it  up.  They  are  saying  it  may  be  Father's." 

"Where?" 

"Near  Farmer  Johnstone's  manure  heaps,  where 
those  old  sheds  are." 

His  young  face  was  bleached  with  horror,  his  voice 
husky. 

She  gave  the  boy  a  glass  of  cold  water  and  made 
him  sit  down.  He  was  shaking  all  over. 

Brookes  was  sent  out  to  find  news,  and  a  note  des- 
patched to  the  police-station.  By-and-by  the  doctor 
and  a  policeman  called. 

Mrs.  Desmond  listened  in  silence,  her  face  becom- 
ing more  and  more  haggard.  The  body  had  been 
found  by  accident;  a  hole  was  being  dug  for  dead 

55 


56      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

leaves,  to  make  some  good  mould.  There  were  bones, 
and  something  else,  some  dreadful  remains,  in  the  last 
stages  of  decomposition.  Lime  had  been  used,  and 
had  destroyed  a  great  deal,  all  clothing  on  top,  etc. 
The  clothing  underneath  was  mere  mould  and  mud, 
eaten,  soaked  away.  It  was  the  body  of  a  big  man. 
Impossible  to  say  more;  and  only  possible  to  guess 
how  long  it  had  been  there — years.  The  skull  was 
beaten  in. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mrs.  Desmond  fainted. 

They  were  all  very  gentle  with  her,  and  hovered 
round  her,  and  brought  her  loving  messages  from  The 
Domain  and  the  Rectory  and  the  humble  friends  who 
were  stirred  by  this  revival  of  an  old  tragedy.  None 
doubted  that  it  was  at  long  last  a  clue  to  the  Des- 
mond mystery. 

Harry  Desmond  and  his  wife  came  in  towards  eve- 
ning. They  had  been  to  the  police-station. 

"He  must  have  turned  back,"  said  Aunt  Hermione, 
sorrowfully,  "and  gone  round  the  front  way  instead 
of  coming  in  by  the  garden,  to  get  into  the  paddock." 
They  always  called  the  bit  of  ground  between  the  bot- 
tom of  their  garden  and  the  backs  of  the  village  houses, 
the  paddock.  It  was  shared  by  The  Leas,  next-door, 
and  a  narrow  path  between  the  two  gardens,  entered 
from  the  front  road,  gave  access  to  it. 

"Something  must  have  attracted  his  attention  there, 
and  he  must  have  gone  to  see,  and  been  attacked." 

"What  does  Johnstone  say?" 

"He  does  not  know  what  to  say.    He  chose  the 


THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING  57 

place  himself  for  the  digging,  so  obviously  he  knew 
nothing  about  it.  It  was  his  brother  found  it." 

Aunt  Hermione  was  far  more  moved  by  the  effect 
this  had  on  Mrs.  Desmond,  than  by  her  own  feelings. 
Her  grief  for  her  brother  had  worn  off  its  edge;  she 
was  dry-eyed,  though  sorrowful.  Poor  David,  struck 
down  like  that,  when  he  was  so  happy  and  healthy 
and  young — it  was  tragic  and  terrible.  It  brought  it 
all  back  again,  for  Honoria.  She  had  never  worn 
mourning  for  him;  would  she,  could  she,  now? 

Anyway,  the  long  suspense  was  ended.  So  said 
Lower  Domain. 

Hero  and  Kythe  knew  something,  which  they  whis- 
pered together,  precocious  in  their  sympathy  and  un- 
derstanding of  their  mother. 

"Mummy  always  hoped  he  would  come  back,  like 
he  went.  This  will  be  the  worst  of  all." 

Kythe  nodded,  her  eyes  dark  with  feeling. 

They  were  not  supposed  to  have  been  told  the  eerie 
tale  but  Hubert  wormed  it  out  of  Luttrell  and  then 
passed  it  on  to  them. 

The  blow  to  hope  stunned  Mrs.  Desmond. 

She  lost  herself,  again  and  again,  in  the  mists  of 
fanciful  conjecture  with  which  she  was  wont  to  miti- 
gate her  woe.  Imaginary  situations,  leading  to  a  clue, 
and  to  discovery,  had  occupied  and  beguiled  her  fancy 
for  so  long,  this  assumption  of  a  finality  she  had  al- 
ways dreaded  was  a  bitter  blow.  She  turned  from  it 
to  her  dreams,  and  lost  the  thread  of  people's  remarks, 
and  was  so  absent  and  hazy,  they  kept  her  under 


58      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

slant  observation.  All  came  dropping  into  her  room, 
with  attempts  at  conversation. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  feel,  Honoria,"  said  kind 
Harry  Desmond,  "but  some  people  prefer  certainty  to 
suspense — it's  a  poor  choice,  anyhow.  Poor  old 
David." 

"I  don't  think  suspense  is  as  hard  as  no  hope,"  said 
little  Kythe. 

Mrs.  Desmond  stroked  her  head,  as  she  nestled  be- 
side her. 

"What  I  am  glad  about  in  one  way  is,"  went  on 
Harry,  "that  they  can't  make  any  more  insinuations 
now,  against  his  character.  Death  has  done  that  for 
him.  More  shame  to  their  evil  minds." 

"Dishonour  is  the  worst  of  all,"  said  the  Rector 
gravely;  adding,  "that  reminds  me  of  the  poor  old 
Squire.  Have  you  heard  of  the  new  arrivals?  I 
hope  it  does  not  mean  more  trouble  for  poor  Lady 
Katherine." 

"Who  has  arrived?"  asked  Aunt  Hermione. 

"The  grand-daughter — you  remember,  the  one  who 
was  so  unsatisfactory — she  has  sent  her  children  home 
to  the  old  lady.  A  boy  and  a  girl;  they  arrived  this 
afternoon,  with  a  Chinaman  nurse — a  man  nurse." 

This  was  news  indeed.  The  children  were  about 
the  age  of  Kythe  and  Hero,  and  would  be  company 
for  them,  in  a  place  where  there  were  few  children  of 
their  own  class.  The  Chinaman  nurse  opened  up 
vistas  of  supreme  entertainment.  What  would  The 
Domain  servants  do  with  a  Chinaman  nurse? 

"Does  he  put  them  to  bed?"  asked  Hero,  shaken 


THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING  59 

in  every  fibre   of  propriety.    It  was  a  monstrous 
proposition. 

Even  Mrs.  Desmond  laughed. 

An  inquest,  of  course,  was  held,  and  a  verdict  of 
murder  of  an  unknown  man  by  some  person  or  per- 
sons unknown,  was  the  result.  Conviction  settled 
down  on  the  community  that  it  was  the  body  of  the 
missing  David  Desmond,  the  story  of  whose  disap- 
pearance was  raked  up  and  retold  with  a  thousand 
adornments  and  inaccuracies.  Among  the  picturesque 
embellishments  with  which  the  tale  was  trimmed,  was 
the  falling  of  the  picture,  and  the  consternation  this 
created  in  the  deceased  gentleman's  mind.  It  was  to 
all  who  understood  signs  and  portents  an  infallible 
warning  of  death,  and  he  knew  it.  He  had  said  those 
very  words;  though  who  he  had  said  them  to,  re- 
mained as  great  a  mystery  as  the  name  and  identity  of 
his  murderer. 

It  was  poor  befogged  Amos  Johnstone  who  found 
the  remains;  and  his  evidence  was  very  pathetic.  He, 
too,  had  had  a  loss.  His  boy,  who  had  been  spared 
prosecution  by  Farmer  Johnstone,  had  promised  to 
come  and  say  goodbye  to  him,  before  leaving  the  coun- 
try. He  had  never  come;  and  the  poor  man  was  un- 
willing to  believe  that  hardness  of  heart  was  the 
explanation.  Ijle  was  just  as  anxious  to  claim  these 
mournful  remains  as  those  of  his  son,  as  Mrs.  Desmond 
was  not  to  have  them  identified  as  those  of  her  hus- 
band. But  Desmond  was  a  taller  man,  and  of  bigger 
build,  than  the  young  market-gardener;  and  poor 


60      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Johnstone  had  to  admit,  mournfully,  that  their  size 
put  it  out  of  the  question  that  the  remains  should  be 
those  of  the  engaging  young  rascal  for  whom  he  cher- 
ished so  deep  an  affection. 

'Tore  old  Johnstone,"  Tenterley  said  to  the  school- 
master, "he  can't  seem  ever  to  get  over  it,  his  son 
goo'ng  off  like  that  w'thout  saying  goodbye  and  all. 
He  would  rather  he  wuz  dead  than  that  ardarted." 

"Robbed  the  old  man,  didn't  he?"  asked  Turton, 
idly. 

"He  did,  and  took  up  with  bad  characters  besides, 
and  his  uncle  would  a-sent  him  to  prison  if  he  hadn't 
a-promised  to  goo  away  and  git  out  of  the  country. 
And  he's  never  wrote  his  pore  father  a  line.  Pruper 
young  rascal,  he  were.  Good  thing  for  her,  pore 
woman,  that  his  mother  died  before  it  come  to  that." 

The  question  arose,  what  was  to  be  done  with  the 
body  found  on  Farmer  Johnstone's  land?  Would  Mrs. 
Desmond  claim  it?  Would  it  be  buried  as  David  Des- 
mond? There  was  intense  curiosity  on  this  point,  and 
at  The  Meadows  it  was  raised  by  Mrs.  Desmond 
herself. 

Lennox  was  there,  and  Luttrell;  and  Uncle  Harry 
and  Mr.  Beaumont,  the  lawyer.  The  Rector,  also, 
and  Dr.  Willett,  Mrs.  Desmond,  Aunt  Hermione,  and 
Aunt  Nell. 

"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do?"  she  asked,  in 
her  troubled  voice,  with  a  catch  in  her  throat. 

No  one  really  knew.    It  was  a  difficult  point! 

Luttrell  finally  settled  it. 


THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING  61 

"Let  us  do  it,  Mummy  dear;  it  can't  do  my  father 
any  harm,  if  it  isn't  him;  and  if  he  comes  back  we 
shall  be  so  glad  we  won't  care  who's  buried  as  who. 
If  it  is  him,  it  ought  to  be  us." 

"That  is  so,"  said  the  Rector;  and  the  lawyer  and 
Uncle  Harry  agreed.  Lennox  made  difficulties,  but 
had  nothing  better  to  suggest. 

So  the  remains  were  laid  beneath  a  stone  inscribed 
"Sacred  to  the  memory  of  D.  D.  Desmond,"  with  a 
date  and  a  text;  and  Mrs.  Desmond  put  on  mourning. 
But  she  never  went  near  the  grave. 

Lady  Katherine  was  immeasurably  kind  and  went 
out  of  her  way  to  advertise  the  friendship. 

"A  long-drawn  martyrdom,  heroically  borne,"  she 
said  to  Harry  Desmond.  "Could  you  not  get  her  to 
go  away,  now,  for  a  change?  I  am  sending  the  chil- 
dren to  the  sea  before  the  weather  breaks;  why  not 
all  go?" 

And  so  they  did,  Lady  Katherine  accompanying 
them.  She  looked  old  and  strained,  and  seemed  to 
need  the  change  more  than  any  of  them.  There  was 
something  in  her  expression  that  looked  like  dread. 

Hubert  and  Hero  and  Kythe,  and  Launcelot  and 
Guinevere  Gervase  became  great  friends.  The  Aus- 
tralian children  were  big  and  strong,  good  to  look  at, 
and  good  company,  with  a  fund  of  knowledge  of  ships, 
niggers,  snakes, ,  and  alien  excitements  that  enchanted 
their  new  comrades. 

The  Chinese  nurse  was  so  useful  that  Lady  Kath- 
erine said  she  did  not  know  how  she  had  ever  done 


62      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

without  him.  When  they  got  back  to  Fairlands  the 
intimacy  progressed,  and  hardly  a  day  passed  without 
the  young  people  seeing  each  other. 

The  days  of  Victoria  were  at  an  end,  and  Edward 
VII.  had  come  to  the  throne,  before  the  new  children 
came  to  The  Domain.  Arthur  Gervase,  their  uncle, 
who  had  seen  service  and  got  rapid  promotion  in  South 
Africa,  came  home  about  the  same  time  as  they  ar- 
rived. He  shrank  from  the  very  thought  of  his  sister, 
but  liked  his  nephew  and  niece  and  voted  them  "jolly 
kids";  and  took  them  rides  in  his  car — then  a  new  and 
rather  wonderful  toy.  The  children  from  The  Mead- 
ows also  shared  this  treat,  and  developed  a  sort  of  hero- 
worship  for  the  cheery  soldier-man.  Luttrell  thought 
him  a  splendid  person,  who  never  put  on  side  nor  came 
the  grown-up  over  you.  Mrs.  Desmond  liked  him  too. 

"I  can't  think  where  my  sister  picked  up  another 
Gervase,"  he  laughed.  "She  never  writes,  you  know, 
except  a  picture  post-card  to  say  there  is  another  child, 
or  I  am  godfather  to  one  of  them,  or  something  like 
that.  But  Gervase  isn't  a  common  name  at  all;  I 
always  wonder  who  he  is." 

"All  sorts  of  fine  names  are  common  overseas,"  said 
Aunt  Hermione.  "I  have  some  friends  who  have  been 
in  Canada,  and  there  are  people  with  wonderful  old 
names  cleaning  the  streets  and  lighting  the  lamps." 

Gervase  laughed. 

"Younger  sons  of  younger  sons,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"Steady  descent  as  well  as  ancient!  Slithering  down, 
in  fact;  into  the  gutter.  And  the  hitherto-unheard-of s 
rocketting  up  to  the  peerage — that's  the  way  of  the 


THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING  63 

world.  Who  does  the  girl  remind  you  of?  Is  she 
like  my  grandfather?" 

"I  don't  think  so;  no,  not  a  bit." 

"She  is  like  someone — the  boy  is  the  dead  spit  of 
his  mother.  My  grandmother  feels  them  rather  a  re- 
sponsibility; I  must  try  and  be  more  at  home  now  and 
help  her  with  things." 

It  was  a  year  or  two  after  this  that  Major  Gervase 
first  became  aware  of  Kythe's  remarkable  brand  of 
beauty.  There  was  a  Christmas  party  at  the  Manor 
Farm,  and  he  joined  in  all  the  revels  with  goodwill  and 
zest.  At  the  close  of  a  pretty  figure-dance,  stage- 
managed  by  a  racketty  nephew  and  niece  of  jolly  Tom 
Leigh's,  all  the  couples  had  to  pass  through  a  door- 
way and  under  a  great  bunch  of  mistletoe  that  hung 
there.  As  each  couple  came  through,  they  had  to  stop 
on  the  further -side  of  the  door  and  exchange  kisses 
with  the  couple  that  followed  them.  They  were  all  a 
little  too  big,  or  a  good  deal  too  young,  for  the  pastime 
to  be  quite  appropriate. 

Major  Gervase,  with  Aunt  Hermione,  paused  to 
greet  the  Rector  and  Kythe.  The  Rector's  eyes  twin- 
kled merrily  as  they  met  Aunt  Hermione's. 

"Got  you!"  he  murmured,  kissing  her  crimsoning 
cheek  with  great  empressement. 

Gervase  held  out  his  hands  to  Kythe  and  looked 
into  her  eyes,  startled  at  the  unexpected  beauty  of 
them.  The  girl  put  her  lips  to  his,  a  little  shyly,  but 
as  naturally  as  she  would  have  kissed  her  uncle.  The 
touch  of  her  soft  mouth  sent  the  blood  racing  through 
his  veins,  and  he  kissed  her  with  a  hot  pressure  he 


64      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

was  ashamed  of  next  moment.  He  could  not  see  her 
face,  and  had  to  move  on  and  make  way;  but  he  saw 
that  she  turned  a  deep-stained  cheek  to  the  next  salute. 

All  night  he  tossed  unrestingly,  thinking  of  the 
startling  depths  of  the  eyes  and  the  lips  that  re- 
turned— yes,  he  was  sure  they  returned  in  some  slight 
degree — his  kiss.  Was  it  because  she  was  only  a  child, 
or  because  she  felt  and  understood? 

He  was  not  blackguard  enough  to  try  to  see  her 
again;  and  did  not  meet  her  until  his  next  leave.  And 
the  time  drew  on,  until  as  we  have  already  said,  fifteen 
years  had  elapsed  since  the  disappearance  of  Mr.  Des- 
mond. Gervase  was  again  at  his  grandmother's,  and 
his  coming  was  acclaimed  with  joy  by  all  the  young 
people. 

The  great-grandson  and  daughter  were  giving  Lady 
Katherine  much  happiness  and  gratification.  They 
did  well  at  school,  had  nice  manners  as  well  as  high 
spirits;  and  were  trustworthy  and  good  and  affection- 
ate. She  loved  them,  and  her  grandson,  Arthur,  ex- 
ceedingly. No  news  came  of  the  children's  father  or 
mother. 

Lady  Katherine  was  getting  to  look  frail  now;  but 
her  faculties  were  unimpaired  and  her  health  excellent. 
She  still  kept  complete  control  of  her  household  and 
did  her  own  accounts.  Arthur  was,  however,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  master  at  The  Domain. 

Once  more  Arthur  Gervase  was  struck  with  the 
beauty  of  little  Kythe,  and  her  grace  and  charm.  He 
would  have  given  much  to  know  whether  the  alluring 
droop  of  her  eyelids,  and  the  avoidance  of  his  gaze, 


THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LIVING  65 

were  due  to  habit  or  to  consciousness.  She  and  Hero 
were  brought  forward  a  good  deal  for  their  years,  as 
May,  much  their  senior,  was  lonely  in  the  absence  of 
her  brothers,  and  was  dependent  on  her  younger  sis- 
ters for  companionship. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FATHERS   AND   MOTHERS 

LAUNCELOT  and  Guinevere,  the  Gervase  boy  and 
girl,  were  really  younger  than  Kythe,  but  so  much 
older  in  character  and  experience,  as  well  as  in  looks, 
that  the  difference  in  age  was  not  noticeable.  The 
boy  was  black  and  white,  like  his  mother;  fine,  soft, 
black  hair,  growing  in  little  twists  and  twirls,  that  made 
his  head  an  artistic  joy;  a  thick  white  skin  that  had 
a  swarthy  look  for  all  its  whiteness.  The  Creole 
blood  showed  plainly  enough.  He  had  bright,  pene- 
trating hazel  eyes,  and  a  jolly,  wide-lipped  smile. 

The  girl  was  different.  She  had  rich  chestnut  hair 
and  blunt  features,  pleasant  without  being  really 
pretty.  Her  eyes  were  very  blue,  and  her  skin 
freckled  but  fair.  She  looked  as  thoroughly  English 
as  her  brother  looked  foreign.  She  was  a  busy,  cheer- 
ful young  person,  neat-fingered  and  handy,  with  a 
love  of  doing  anything  that  was  not  exactly  her  job. 

The  young  people  were  all  together  the  day  before 
that  fifteenth  anniversary.  The  summer  had  been 
short,  autumn  was  setting  in  early,  and  a  fire  was 
blazing  in  the  playroom.  Launcelot  was  making 
toast,  Kythe  was  plying  the  butter-knife,  and  Hero 
was  performing  feats  of  stickiness  in  connection  with 

66 


FATHERS  AND  MOTHERS  67 

toffee  that  would  not  disadhere  from  a  sheet  of  oily 
paper. 

May,  a  sort  of  visitor  in  the  playroom,  lounged  in 
the  most  comfortable  chair,  piled  round  with  cushions. 
Luttrell  and  Hubert  were  inspecting,  one  by  one,  flies 
tied  by  Guinevere;  and  found  themselves  obliged  to 
confess  that  they  could  not  have  improved  upon  the 
results. 

"I  never  saw  such  fingers,"  grumbled  Luttrell.  "I 
don't  know  where  you  got  them  from!" 

"They  are  mine  now,  anyway,"  grinned  Guinevere, 
holding  out  a  not  entirely  clean  pair  of  hands  and 
then  hiding  them  behind  her  back. 

"Mother  used  to  say,"  called  Launcelot,  disjoint- 
edly,  from  the  fire,  where  he  was  finding  it  difficult  to 
protect  his  face  from  the  blaze,  "that  she  had  father's 
hands.  He  was  always  doing  things — like  her, 
mother  said." 

"Did  she?"  responded  Guinevere,  carelessly.  It 
was  not  a  subject  in  which  she  took  much  interest. 
She  knew  she  could  "do  things,"  and  held  it  cheap 
accordingly. 

"Do  you  remember  your  father?"  asked  Luttrell, 
with  some  curiosity.  The  subject  of  fathers  was  one 
full  of  possibilities. 

"No,"  said  Guinevere,  unconcerned.  "Don't  think 
I  ever  saw  him,." 

"Did  he  die  when  you  were  quite  a  baby?"  asked 
May,  sympathetically.  How  strange,  she  thought, 
pityingly,  that  Kythe  and  this  girl,  such  friends,  should 
neither  of  them  have  known  their  father. 


68      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Oh,  he's  not  dead,"  said  Guinevere,  lightly.  "At 
least,  I  never  heard  so.  Did  you,  Lance?" 

"Don't  know,"  answered  Lance,  gruffly.  "No  one 
does." 

To  say  the  young  Desmonds  were  surprised  is  to 
put  it  mildly.  It  was  a  coincidence. 

They  stared,  in  silence,  too  well-bred  to  ask  ques- 
tions. 

"Gran  said  not  to  talk  about  it,  when  I  asked  her 
once,"  went  on  Lance,  scrambling  to  his  feet.  "And 
mother  boxed  my  ears,  when  I  asked  her!  So  I 
suppose  they  don't  mean  to  let  us  know;  but  a  man 
— a  friend  of  Mother's — told  me  afterwards  that  no 
one  knew,  and  perhaps  it  was  best.  I  don't  know 
what  he  meant,  though." 

"Don't  you  want  to  know,  most  desperately?" 
asked  Hubert,  quaintly  earnest;  and  Lance  said,  "Oh, 
I  don't  know  that  I  care  much." 

"There  were  lots  of  people,  where  Mother  was,  who 
didn't  know  things  like  that,"  said  Guin,  sagely.  "It 
wasn't  ever  any  use  asking  anyone  anything  of  that 
sort,  but  no  one  minded  about  it,  and  it  made  no  dif- 
ference. It  didn't  seem  to  matter  there.  I  don't 
know  why  it  seems  to  matter  more  here.  It  doesn't 
really  matter,  you  know!" 

"We  thought  it  mattered,  awfully,"  said  Luttrell, 
with  some  heat. 

The  matter-of-fact,  unemotional  outlook  of  the 
Australian  children,  born  and  bred  in  the  under- 
world, was  a  shock  to  their  friends.  The  Desmonds 


FATHERS  AND  MOTHERS  69 

had  always  been  conscious  of  a  difference;  but  it  had 
never  been  so  sharply  accentuated.  The  intimate 
nature  of  the  subject  made  the  gulf  in  their  outlook 
yawn  more  widely. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  any  use,"  retorted  Guin. 

"What  wasn't?" 

"Thinking  it  mattered.  It  didn't  help.  And  it 
wouldn't  make  things  any  different  for  us,  no  matter 
what  we  thought,  so  what  would  be  the  use  of  our 
worrying?" 

"When  you  mind  things,"  said  Kythe,  "it  isn't  be- 
cause it's  any  use,  it's  because  you  can't  help  mind- 
ing." 

"You  don't  feel  what  you  like,"  put  in  May.  "You 
feel  what  you  must — what  you  are  made  like." 

"That's  it,"  said  Lance;  "and  we  aren't  all  made 
to  feel  alike.  Toast's  ready,  and  /  feel  like  eating 
it." 

There  was  a  consensus  of  agreement  on  this  score, 
and  the  subject  of  fathers  was  dropped. 

May  spoke  about  it  afterwards  to  Aunt  Hermione. 

"But  doesn't  it  seem  extraordinary,  Aunt  Her- 
mione?" 

"Their  mother  was  always  very  queer,  dear.  I 
am  hardly  surprised  at  anything  concerning  her. 
She  gave  Lady  Katherine  a  world  of  trouble,  with  her 
terrible  temper,  and  her  uncertain  whims  and  change- 
ableness;  and  she  was  expelled  from  school  for  be- 
ing unmanageable — oh,  and  other  things,  too.  There 
were  all  sorts  of  tales  about  her  goings-on  at  The  Do- 


70      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

main — you  cannot  stop  servants  gossipping,  even  the 
best  of  them;  and  the  village  people  knew  things  too. 
She  took  after  her  really  dreadful  mother,  who  got 
hold  of  poor  Hugh  Gervase — Major  Gervase's  father 
— before  he  was  twenty,  and  ruined  him.  Hugh 
seems  to  be  an  unlucky  name  for  them,  both  Hughs 
came  to  grief.  I  am  not  surprised  Teresa's  husband 
should  have  left  her,  though.  What  could  you  ex- 
pect a  man  to  do  with  such  an  ungovernable  creature?" 

"Oh,"  said  May,  enlightened.  "You  think  he  de- 
serted her?" 

"Most  probably.  Why?  Do  you  think  it  was 
anything  else?" 

"I  didn't  know,  Aunt  Hermione.  I  really  hadn't 
thought.  I  wondered,  rather,  if  he  were  in  prison!" 

"Now  what  made  you  think  of  that?  Of  course, 
that  is  quite  possible,  too.  She  was  very  likely  in- 
deed to  marry  someone  who  might  eventually  find  his 
way  to  prison!  However,  it  is  not  our  business,  May 
dear,  and  it  is  not  a  nice  thing  to  try  and  find  out  our 
friends'  secrets;  so  don't  let  us  talk  about  it." 

May  kissed  her. 

"Not  to  Lennox's  wife,"  she  agreed,  hastily;  and 
Aunt  Hermione  gave  an  involuntary  laugh  and  frown. 

Lennox's  wife  was  so  very  superior! 

Arthur  Gervase  called  that  evening  after  dinner, 
bringing  a  message  from  Harry  Desmond,  with  whom 
he  had  dined  in  town.  Full  of  the  painful  possi- 
bilities which  the  young  people's  chatter  had  disclosed, 
Aunt  Hermione  alluded  to  Lance  and  Guin  as  "poor 
children!" 


FATHERS  AND  MOTHERS  71 

"Why  'poor  children'?"  said  Gervase,  surprised. 
"Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"Oh!  I  only  meant — I  was  thinking — it  is  very 
impertinent  of  me,  Major  Gervase,  to  allude  to  your 
family's  affairs;  but  they  were  chattering,  as  young 
people  will  do;  and  it  seemed  so  sad." 

"I  think  they  are  lucky,  all  things  considered," 
eaid  Gervase. 

"Well,  yes.  That  is  what  I  mean.  It  is  sad  that 
it  should  be  luck  for  them  not  to  know  their  father, 
or  to  be  with  their  mother.  I  don't  want  to  be  pry- 
ing, you  know  that;  but  do  you  have  any  news  of — 
her?  Does  she  ever  write?" 

Gervase  shook  his  head. 

"She  never  did  write  more  than  a  post-card,  and 
now  we  have  not  heard  for  ever  so  long.  The  very 
first  news  she  ever  sent  me  was  that  Guin  was  born; 
once  she  dropped  a  card  to  say  I  was  Lance's  god- 
father! She  never  even  bothered  to  tell  Gran  of  her 
marriage,  or  where  she  met  her  husband." 

"Was  it  not  at  your  father's  station?" 

"Haven't  a  notion,  I  asked  Lance  once,  but  he  did 
not  know,  and  I  hate  the  idea  of  pumping  the  young- 
sters, and  so  does  Gran." 

Aunt  Hermione  nodded. 

"I  remember  her  just  a  little — in  the  old  days," 
she  said.  "Such  an  attractive-looking  creature.  I 
only  saw  her  once  or  twice,  and  never  spoke  to  her; 
but  no  one  could  forget  her.  She  looked  like  a  thing 
caught  wild — snared." 

"And  ready  to  bite  and  claw,"  laughed  Gervase. 


72      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"She  had  the  devil's  own  temper.  How  terrified  I 
was  of  her!  Poor  Gran.  Well,  I  must  move  on. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Desmond." 

Down  the  grassy  walk,  now  embowered  in  roses 
trailed  over  arching  frames,  he  went  to  the  garden 
door  from  which  Mr.  Desmond  had  gone  out  never  to 
return.  Under  the  arching  rose  trails  he  met  Kythe. 

"Not  in  bed,  little  girl?"  he  chaffed. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Kythe.  "I  like  the  garden  best,  at 
night.  I  wish  I  could  stay  out  all  night." 

Her  voice  was  delicious,  rich  and  low,  with  a  hint 
of  suppressed  laughter  that  contrasted  with  the  deep 
pathos  of  her  eyes.  He  thrust  his  hand  through  her 
arm,  and  said, 

"Come  and  see  me  out — lock  me  out  safely." 

Her  soft  warmth,  her  light,  sure  tread,  her  near- 
ness, went  to  his  head.  Outside  the  gate  he  lingered, 
her  hand  in  his. 

"Good-night,"  she  said  softly;  "you  won't  'dis- 
appear,' will  you?  This  was  where  it  happened." 

There  was  the  lilt  of  a  half-laugh  in  her  voice.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  jested  about  the  dis- 
appearance that  had  shadowed  their  lives  with  mystery. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  did?"  he  asked.  And,  as 
she  gave  no  answer,  but  lifted  a  laughing  face  to  his, 
he  kissed  her  in  a  fashion  he  flattered  himself  was 
brotherly. 

"Don't  let  us  make  a  hobby  of  it,"  said  Kythe, 
mischievously.  "I  mean  disappearances,  not  kisses." 

The  little  puss,  he  thought!  She  danced  away, 
leaving  him  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he 


FATHERS  AND  MOTHERS  73 

would  not  like  her  to  tell  Mrs.  Desmond  he  had  kissed 
her  good-night  at  the  gate. 

His  face  flushed  in  the  darkness  as  he  realised  he 
had  done  a  thing  that  was  equivocal ;  and  as  he  strolled 
down  the  lane  to  The  Domain,  he  called  himself  names 
for  giving  way  to  what  was,  excuse  it  as  he  might, 
a  nasty  impulse.  So  concerned  was  he,  that  he  hardly 
saw,  and  did  not  notice,  a  man,  standing  on  the  nar- 
row footpath  opposite  the  door  in  The  Domain  wall, 
that  opened  into  the  lane  just  as  the  Desmonds'  garden 
door  did.  The  man  was  staring  fixedly  at  the  door, 
and  did  not  move  as  Gervase,  unseeing  and  unheeding, 
put  his  latchkey  in  the  lock  and  let  himself  in. 

The  door  opened  into  a  part  of  the  premises  where 
the  remains  of  the  Old  Tower,  grimly  defying  Time, 
reared  its  gaunt  grey  head  above  the  more  modern 
brick  wall.  The  arched  doorway  with  massive  metal 
reinforcements  gleamed,  well  polished  and  smooth,  in 
the  faint  light.  Gervase  strode  down  the  tiled  path; 
and  the  soft  padding  of  the  other  man's  steps  as  he 
went  up  the  lane  on  the  grassy  edge  of  the  path, 
kept  time  with  his  more  resonant  footfalls. 

Gervase  was  more  than  a  little  stirred  by  his  en- 
counter with  Kythe.  Of  love  affairs  he  had  had 
several,  but  he  had  been  cautious  even  when  impas- 
sioned. His  father's  fate,  and  his  brother's  fate, 
snared  while  they  were  still  boys  by  women  older  than 
themselves  and  of  a  lower  class,  had  been  a  warning 
to  him.  Both  father  and  brother  had  ruined  them- 
selves socially  and  lowered  themselves  morally,  by 
their  association  with  low  and  unscrupulous  women. 


74      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

As  for  his  sister,  her  dubious  career,  of  which  he  knew 
but  little,  was  certainly  the  result  of  her  evil  inherit- 
ance. As  disappearances  were  part  of  the  atmosphere 
in  which  his  lot  was  cast,  he  devoutly  hoped  that  this 
sister,  whom  he  had  cordially  disliked  and  feared, 
and  the  casual  husband  whom  she  had  picked  up  God 
knows  where,  and  who  appeared  to  have  discarded 
her  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  might  disappear 
permanently  from  all  their  lives.  Her  children  were 
all  right — jolly  kids.  He  did  not  know  how  that  wild- 
cat, Teresa,  had  managed  to  produce  anything  so 
decent;  but,  of  course,  good  blood  crops  up  and  comes 
out  as  well  as  bad.  He  would  always  look  after  Lance 
and  Guin,  even  if  he  had  children  of  his  own.  .  .  . 
The  visions  conjured  up  by  this  thought  engrossed 
him  for  the  rest  of  his  waking  hours;  and  he  dreamed 
jumbled  dreams  of  kissing  Kythe  again,  and  finding 
that  Teresa  was  watching,  and  was  laughing  at  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  ANNIVERSARY 

NEXT  day  the  Lennoxes  arrived,  by  as  early  a  train 
as  was  compatible  with  their  eight  o'clock  breakfast. 

"Mother  not  visible,  I  suppose?"  was  Lennox's 
sarcastic  greeting,  when  Aunt  Hermione  met  them  in 
the  hall. 

"That  goes  without  saying,"  put  in  Mrs.  Lennox, 
tartly. 

She  was  a  hard-faced  young  woman,  with  a  chirp- 
ing, complacent  voice  that  was  infinitely  irritating. 
She  snubbed  Lennox  mercilessly,  and  contradicted 
him  incessantly;  and  far  from  giving  them  satisfaction, 
this  made  the  Desmonds  almost  more  angry  than  Len- 
nox's attitude  towards  them! 

They  fitted  themselves  in,  with  the  two  whining, 
fretful  babies,  who  were  always  crying  and  complain- 
ing; and  Mrs.  Lennox  aired  her  usual  grievance  about 
the  bleak  aspect  of  the  nursery,  and  the  superior  ad- 
vantages of  LuttrelFs  room,  which  was  so  much  better 
suited  to  children.  The  usual  silence  greeted  these 
remarks. 

"Why  have  those  children  got  their  hair  up?"  was 
her  next  attack,  alluding  to  Hero  and  Kythe.  She 
and  Lennox  had  been  at  the  sea-side  for  a  month, 

75 


76      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

so  found  a  great  many  things  that  wanted  speaking 
about,  on  their  return. 

"Hero  is  not  a  child,"  answered  Aunt  Hermione, 
"and  it  is  time  her  hair  went  up.  Kythe  does  it  to 
keep  Hero  company,  and  because  it  suits  her." 

"Absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Lennox.  "It  should  not  be 
allowed.  It  makes  her  look  ten  years  older." 

"Grown-up,  in  fact,"  put  in  Luttrell.  "Kythe's  older 
than  most  of  us,  ain't  you,  Baby?" 

For  no  reason  apparent,  Kythe  crimsoned. 

"What  are  you  colouring  up  for?"  asked  Mrs. 
Lennox,  sharply. 

"Do  leave  the  children  alone,  Dot,"  said  Aunt 
Hermione.  "I  can't  stand  that  constant  discussion 
of  them  before  their  faces.  It  really  is  such  bad 
manners,  and  young  people  are  quick  enough  to  pick 
up  bad  manners  as  it  is." 

"Well,  what  next?"  asked  Dot,  with  a  cold,  offended 
stare.  Lennox  stared  too.  Was  the  worm  actually 
turning? 

"I'm  sorry  I  am  bad-mannered,"  said  Dot,  with 
dignity.  "It  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  told  so." 

"Pity!"  said  Luttrell,  sotto  voce,  and  Hubert  got 
very  red  and  nearly  choked. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Lennox,  angrily. 

"Did  I  say  anything?"  returned  Luttrell,  blandly. 

With  an  effort,  all  recaptured  their  manners  and 
tempers.  But  by  the  time  lunch  was  ready  Hero  and 
Kythe  were  in  the  grip  of  a  fit  of  giggles,  and  Hubert 
kept  indulging  in  spasms  which  he  vainly  endeavoured 
to  camouflage  as  coughs. 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  77 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  gong  sounded.  Lennox 
rose,  with  a  quotation  appropriate  to  the  noise. 

"  'Sound  the  loud  timbrel/ "  he  began;  adding, 
"there  isn't  any  poetry  about  gongs,  is  there?" 

"You  don't  call  Moore  'poetry/  do  you?"  asked 
Dot,  with  scorn. 

"Why  not?" 

"Moore?"  with  greater  scorn. 

"He  ranks  with  Burns,  anyway.  Come  along, 
don't  argue." 

In  the  dining-room,  Lennox  inspected  the  cold 
dishes  on  the  side-board. 

"Gladstone  used  to  say" — he  began,  amiably. 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  interrupted 
Dot;  "and  it  wasn't  Gladstone.  It  was  Pitt." 

Lennox  looked  at  her  in  speechless  exasperation, 
and  started  to  whet  the  carving-knife. 

"Gladstone  used  to  say,"  he  began  again,  presently; 
only  to  be  cut  short  once  more. 

"Pitt,  Lennox.  You  really  should  not  make  such 
a  display  of  ignorance." 

"I  can't  think  what  you  married  me  for,  as  you 
always  appear  to  think  me  wrong,  and  take  a  pleasure 
in  making  me  out  a  fool,"  said  Lennox,  rather  too 
loudly. 

"I  certainly  did  not  marry  you  for  your  brains," 
promptly  retorted  his  spouse;  which  was  unfair  and 
untrue,  as  her  husband  was  a  very  shrewd  and  very 
successful  business  man. 

These  scenes  were  not  altogether  unusual,  but  they 
never  failed  to  grate  on  the  fastidious  susceptibilities 


78      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

of  the  Desmonds.  For  husband  and  wife  to  wrangle, 
and  to  wrangle  openly,  was  hideously  ill-bred.  Luck- 
ily the  servants  did  not  wait  at  lunch. 

They  all  felt  on  edge  and  were  silent.  Sympathy 
was  entirely  with  Lennox.  Aunt  Hermione  struggled 
to  find  something  to  say,  so  as  to  throw  herself  into 
the  breach;  but  could  think  of  nothing.  Lennox  whet- 
ted the  carving-knife  furiously,  and  in  a  strangled 
voice  asked, 

"Hot  or  cold,  Aunt  Hermie?" 

"Had  you  not  better  wait  for  your  mother?"  re- 
buked Aunt  Hermione,  with  icy  displeasure — all 
thrown  away  on  Lennox. 

He  always  took  the  end  of  the  table  and  the  carving, 
without  invitation,  on  his  visits.  All  hated  it  and 
none  had  the  nerve  to  resist  his  airs  of  authority. 

"Need  we?"  asked  he,  in  answer  to  his  aunt's  re- 
buke, with  a  slight,  very  slight  intonation  of  contempt 
that  made  them  all  angry  again.  "She  is  sure  to  be 
late  to-day.  Oh!  Here  she  is." 

Mrs.  Desmond  came  in,  giving  an  absent  cheek  to 
her  son  and  his  wife,  and  taking  her  accustomed  seat 
with  her  back  to  the  door.  The  joint  was  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table. 

She  looked  like  an  exquisite,  old-world  picture,  in 
the  crepe  lisse  widow's  cap  she  always  wore  now,  with 
the  troubled  eyes  below  the  smooth,  creamy  brow. 
Her  chestnut  hair  was  still  thick  and  luxuriant, 
though  powdered  with  grey;  the  white  streak  on  either 
side  still  vividly  distinct. 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  79 

Unfolding  her  table-napkin  absently,  she  continued, 
with  her  lips  and  her  eyebrows,  her  hands  and  her 
shoulders,  some  animated  argument  or  discussion  her 
fancy  was  elaborating.  At  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
Lennox,  carvers  in  hand,  began  an  insolent  mimicry 
of  her  gestures,  exaggerated  to  suit  his  idea  of  the 
humorous;  and  a  muttered  version  of  what  he  imagined 
her  conversation  might  be. 

Only  his  wife  laughed.  The  others  were,  as  usual, 
bursting  with  rage,  and  took  not  the  least  notice  of 
him. 

"He  is  imitating  you,  Mother,"  chirped  Dot. 
"Naughty  boy,  look  at  him!  That  is  just  the  way 
you  do,  when  you  let  yourself  wander  off.  Do  look 
at  him,  and  then  you  will  know  what  it  is  like." 

Mrs.  Desmond  turned  a  perfectly  grave,  perfectly 
blank  face  on  this  jocosity,  gazing  at  Mrs.  Lennox  as 
if  she  were  a  curiosity. 

"Be  good  now,  dear,"  continued  the  arch  Mrs. 
Lennox  to  her  mother-in-law,  "and  leave  off,  and  attend 
to  your  lunch  and  your  family." 

It  was  all  as  if  a  child,  or  a  person  senile  and  im- 
becile, were  being  admonished.  With  rage  in  their 
hearts,  the  young  Desmonds  clattered  their  knives  and 
forks  and  glasses  and  plates,  and  made  as  much  noise 
with  their  chairs  as  they  could. 

They  all  talked  at  once,  to  drown  Mrs.  Lennox's  de- 
testable waggishness.  Above  the  racket,  Lennox 
called  again,  in  authoritative  tones, 

"Hot  or  cold,  Aunt  Hermie?" 


So      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Cold,  please,"  answered  Aunt  Hermione,  striving 
after  calm;  and  Lennox  moved  to  the  sideboard. 
"I  never  can  resist  a  'wealandammer' " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  as  the  hall  door  opened, 
and  shut  with  an  emphatic  slam. 

Someone  was  in  the  hall;  someone  whose  movements 
could  be  heard  plainly,  the  dining-room  door  having 
a  trick  of  slipping  its  catch  and  swinging  a  little  open. 

It  was  a  welcome  interruption,  and  relieved  the 
strain. 

"It  is  Major  Gervase,"  cried  Hubert,  joyfully. 
"Shall  I  see?" 

He  left  his  place,  the  unlikelihood  of  Major  Gervase 
coming  in  without  ringing,  striking  Aunt  Hermione 
as  he  did  so.  Opening  the  door,  he  pulled  it  close 
after  him  as  he  saw  a  stranger. 

A  big,  elderly  man  stood  there  in  the  hall,  taking 
off  his  coat  and  hanging  it  with  his  hat  in  the  recess 
curtained  off  for  hats  and  sticks.  Smoothing  his  hair 
with  his  hand,  he  walked  towards  the  door  which 
Hubert  had  closed  behind  him,  giving  an  almost 
menacing  glance  at  the  boy,  who  moved  instinctively 
aside.  Pushing  open  the  door,  he  entered  the  dining- 
room,  Hubert  following  him  and  standing  just  inside 
the  room. 

Lennox,  flourishing  the  carvers,  looked  round  from 
the  sideboard  and  paused,  at  first  in  expectation,  then 
in  blank  amazement.  Hubert  slipped  round  to  his 
place  by  Hero;  they  all,  except  Mrs.  Desmond,  stared 
and  stared  and  stared. 

Broad  and  heavy,  grizzled,  lined,  bronzed;  rough- 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  81 

ened  in  some  indescribable  way  that  yet  did  not  con- 
ceal the  fact  that  he  came  of  gentle  stock;  with  a 
something  of  menace,  something  of  quest  in  his  glance; 
the  man  stood,  inspected  and  inspecting.  His  fine 
blue  eyes,  keen  and  searching,  roamed  round  the 
table. 

"Where  is  your  mother?"  he  asked,  abruptly,  in  a 
dear,  fresh  voice. 

Aunt  Hermione  rose  slowly,  gripping  the  table- 
cloth that  she  felt  give  and  slither  towards  her  under 
the  strain.  The  room  was  swimming  round  her. 

A  knife  clattered  to  the  ground.  Kythe  stooped  to 
pick  it  up. 

"Your  mother!"  breathed  Aunt  Hermione,  thickly. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Mrs.  Desmond  collected 
herself  from  afar.  For  a  moment  she  thought  it 
part  of  her  fancy,  which  dwelt  eternally  on  one  idea; 
but  the  next  moment  the  wandering  thoughts  cleared 
and  she  looked  round. 

Deep  into  her  eyes  he  looked.  The  cap,  the  hidden 
hair,  and  the  back  view  which  it  so  altered,  had  de- 
ceived him.  He  came  a  step  nearer,  and  she  rose. 

A  sound — hoarse,  coarse,  hungry,  strangled — came 
from  the  man's  throat.  It  sounded  hardly  human. 
There  was  something  shocking,  that  no  one  of  them 
could  define,  about  it. 

Mrs.  Desmond  looked  queenly;  proudly  and 
superbly  composed.  Only  her  hands  shook,  betraying 
the  struggle  for  calm.  The  faint,  pink  stains  that 
excitement  brought  to  her  cheeks  were  deeper  and 
brighter;  her  eyes  glowed  softly. 


82      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"There  is  my  mother,"  said  Lennox,  in  answer  to 
the  question.  He  was  staring,  staring,  at  this  man; 
and  something  familiar  was  beginning  to  dawn  in  con- 
nection with  the  face.  Was  it  like  someone  he  knew? 
Who? 

His  eyes  wandered  round  the  table,  and  lighted  on 
Hero  and  Hubert.  It  was  there,  the  likeness;  it  was 
like  them. 

The  thought  of  his  father,  believed  to  be  lying 
under  that  new  stone  in  the  peaceful  churchyard, 
never  entered  his  head. 

"Do  we  know  this  gentleman?"  chirped  Mrs.  Len- 
nox. "Hadn't  somebody  better  introduce  him?" 

She  was  pleased  and  exhilarated  with  the  notion 
that  there  was  some  cause  for  embarrassment.  What 
fun!  was  her  only  thought.  The  truth  never  dawned 
on  her  for  a  moment. 

Still  Mrs.  Desmond  stood  facing  the  man,  who 
stood  close  to  her  without  speaking,  but  taking  hold 
of  her  arm  in  a  masterful,  possessive  way. 

"David!"  broke  from  Miss  Desmond,  hoarsely. 
How  well  she  remembered  that  gesture. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "All  right.  Hadn't  we  better  all 
sit  down?  The  joint  will  be  getting  cold." 

He  pressed  Mrs.  Desmond  into  her  chair  and  walked 
to  the  further  end,  holding  out  his  hand  for  the 
carvers.  As  one  hypnotised,  Lennox  surrendered  them 
to  him. 

"We  want  another  place,"  said  Mr.  Desmond. 
"Move  up  that  side,  Hermie;  and  Lennox  the  other 
side;  that's  right." 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  83 

He  spoke  as  one  accustomed  to  give  orders.  The 
breezy,  masterful  manner  his  sister  remembered  and 
recognised  had  something  added  to  it,  something 
abrupt  and  final. 

There  was  a  general  shifting  of  chairs  and  of  covers, 
and  clinking  of  plate  and  glass.  Mrs.  Desmond  sat 
very  still  in  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The 
children  dared  not  look  at  her. 

It  all  happened  far  more  swiftly  than  it  takes  to 
tell.  From  Hubert's  leaving  his  seat,  and  the  entry 
of  the  stranger,  to  the  moment  when  all  the  seats 
were  fitted  in  and  Mr.  Desmond's  voice  was  ringing 
out  its  clear,  peremptory,  "Hot  or  cold?"  to  each  in 
turn,  was  only  about  two  minutes.  Even  now  they 
did  not  quite  understand. 

When  he  carved  the  leg  of  mutton,  he  picked  out 
the  dainty  pieces  for  Mrs.  Desmond. 

"And  a  little  piece  off  the  knuckle-end,  not  too 
hard,"  he  said,  as  he  had  said  many  times  on  such  oc- 
casions. 

Their  eyes  met  across  the  table. 

He  carried  the  plate  round  to  her,  reaching  across 
Hubert's  shoulder  for  the  cauliflower,  and  over  Mrs. 
Lennox's  for  the  onion  sauce.  He  put  it  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Desmond,  and  stood,  waiting  for  her  upward 
glance  of  thanks. 

Standing  there,  looking  down  on  her,  meeting  her 
eyes,  seeing  the'  white  hair  thick  about  her  temples, 
the  heavy  masses  visible  through  the  fine  web  of  the 
cap,  and  realising  what  that  cap  was  for,  the  queer 
sound  came  again  from  his  throat.  Putting  his  arm 


84      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

round  her  neck,  his  hand  under  her  chin,  he  turned 
her  face  up  and  stooped  to  it,  kissing  her  lips,  her 
eyes,  and  her  lips  again,  with  audible  kisses,  and 
strange  sounds  of  endearment  between  them.  In 
some  dreadful  way  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  quench- 
ing an  overpowering  thirst. 

There  was  something  uncivilised  about  the  way  of 
it. 

It  was  almost  indecent. 

To  a  family  accustomed  to  ways  of  the  most  fas- 
tidious reserve,  it  was  absolutely  painful.  Their 
mother! 

Even  Mrs.  Lennox  felt  that. 

For  husband  and  wife  to  wrangle  in  public  was 
bad.  For  husband  and  wife  to  kiss  each  other  in 
public — it  was  unspeakable.  Aunt  Hermione,  amid 
her  own  discomfort,  felt  sorry  for  the  children. 
They  all  sat  in  strained  silence,  looking  at  their  plates 
and  trying  not  to  clear  their  throats. 

As  Mr.  Desmond  stooped,  to  bestow  on  his  wife 
those  disconcerting  caresses,  something  leaped  into 
sight  that  they  had  not  noticed  before.  On  the  side 
of  his  head,  deep  in  the  thick  hair,  but  clearly  visible, 
was  a  scar,  that  reddened  and  glistened  angrily  as  they 
hastily  averted  their  shamed  eyes. 

"Hot  or  cold?"  Mr.  Desmond  asked  again,  when 
he  resumed  his  place,  and  ordered — yes,  ordered — 
Lennox  to  help  the  cold. 

"This  your  wife?"  he  asked  casually  of  Lennox, 
hearing  Dot  say  "dear"  to  him. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lennox,  meekly. 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  85 

"We  have  been  married  nearly  four  years,"  chirped 
Dot,  but  Mr.  Desmond  did  not  seem  interested,  and 
she  collapsed  as  suddenly  as  she  began. 

"Cook  hasn't  forgotten  how  to  make  a  'wealandam- 
mer/  "  said  Mr.  Desmond,  with  a  little  too  much  ap- 
preciation of  the  food  before  him. 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

"It  is  Edith,  dear,  not  Cook,"  said  Mrs.  Desmond, 
very  clearly,  from  the  other  end.  "Cook  died  nearly 
eight  years  ago,  and  Edith  took  the  place." 

Again  came  a  faint  echo  of  that  sound  in  his  throat. 

"She  does  credit  to  Cook's  training,"  said  Mr.  Des- 
mond, a  moment  later.  "Help  yourself  to  more,  Len- 
nox. Don't  wait  for  me." 

This  set  Hubert  "coughing"  again.  Lennox  looked 
so  meek! 

"Who  is  your  young  friend,  Baby!"  asked  Mr.  Des- 
mond, suddenly. 

Kythe  coloured  again,  and  looked  up  enquiringly. 

He  was  not  speaking  to  her,  it  appeared,  but  to 
Hero. 

Kythe  looked  at  Hero,  and  at  Mr.  Desmond,  in  an 
agony  of  uncertainty.  She  did  not  want  to  say  "That 
is  Hero."  It  seemed  absurd. 

Hearing  no  answer,  Hero  looked  up  and  saw  her 
father  looking  at  her  keenly.  She  coloured  too. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  with  a  half-smile,  and  a  peremp- 
tory note  in  his  Voice. 

"This  is  Kythe,"  again  supplied  Mrs.  Desmond,  the 
colour  burning  bright  on  her  cheeks.  "That  is  Hero; 
and  Hubert.  Kythe  is  called  Baby  now." 


86      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  incredulously,  meeting  hers 
point-blank.  His  fell  first. 

There  was  a  scramble  to  change  the  plates.  Aunt 
Hermione  felt  her  heart  bursting.  The  interruption 
was  a  relief. 

None  of  the  children  looked  at  each  other.  May 
and  Luttrell  clasped  eloquent  fingers  under  the  table 
for  a  moment;  that  was  all.  May  and  Luttrell  knew; 
but  even  yet,  Hero  and  Hubert,  and  Kythe,  could 
scarcely  take  it  in  and  realise. 

This  was  Father! 

He  had  come  back. 

He  was  not  dead. 

He  was  not  ill,  or  hurt,  or  marked  with  ill-treat- 
ment. With  the  exception  of  the  sinister  scar,  he  bore 
no  sign  of  injury  or  coercion.  He  did  not  look  as  if 
he  had  escaped;  he  looked  rather  more  as  if  he  had 
been  in  command!  Everything  he  said  sounded  like 
orders. 

Where  had  he  been? 

What  was  going  to  happen? 

"Luttrell,"  said  Mrs.  Desmond,  in  her  low,  distinct 
voice,  "will  you  go  up  after  lunch  and  tell  your  Uncle 
Harry?  They  will  want  to  know." 

A  quick  glance  from  the  keen  eyes  opposite  her. 
No  word  of  assent  or  dissent. 

"Right,  Mother.    May?    You  come  too?" 

May  nodded  eagerly. 

"Uncle  Harry  and  Aunt  Nell  will  be  excited, 
Mummy,"  cried  she,  determined  to  make  the  best  of 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  87 

things  and  help  them  to  seem  natural.  "Who  Is  go- 
ing to  tell  Lady  Katherine  and  Mr.  Raymond?" 

"I  will,"  said  Aunt  Hermione,  unsteadily. 

When  lunch  was  over,  Mr.  Desmond  waited,  as  of 
yore,  for  all  of  them  to  pass  out  before  him,  he  stand- 
ing with  his  wife  to  watch  them  go.  With  his  arm 
through  hers,  as  of  yore,  he  followed  them  out,  and 
made  for  the  garden.  As  of  yore,  he  stood  with  Mrs. 
Desmond  on  the  broad  shallow  steps  outside  the  French 
window,  overlooking  the  lawn  and  the  riot  of  roses 
below. 

"The  roses  look  well  for  this  time  of  year,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"They  are  nearly  over  now,"  said  Mrs.  Desmond. 

They  walked,  side  by  side,  down  the  paths  and  over 
the  sward,  the  gulf  between  them  widening  moment 
by  moment.  The  explanation  she  had  longed  for, 
thrilled  at  the  thought  of,  waited  in  patient  loyalty  for, 
could  give  her  no  comfort  now.  She  shrank  from  it 
in  every  fibre.  Indeed,  she  knew,  instinctively,  it 
would  not  be  forthcoming. 

The  Alderneys,  the  car  that  had  replaced  the  hand- 
some bays,  the  greenhouses  and  the  fernhouse,  were 
all  visited  before  the  Harry  Desmonds  arrived,  with 
shy,  reluctant  feet,  to  see  with  their  own  eyes  the 
astounding  truth. 

May  and  Luttrell  made  tip-top  speed,  running  part 
of  the  way,  until  they  came  to  the  "avenue"  in  which 
their  uncle's  house  stood.  Then  they  slowed  down, 
stood  still,  and  looked  at  each  other. 


88      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"What  are  we  to  say?"  enquired  Luttrell. 
May  knew  what  he  meant.  She  knew  that  what 
the  foolish  words  covered  was  "How  are  we  to  make 
it  sound  right?  What  will  they  think?"  For  they 
were  no  fools;  and  the  thing  that  had  happened  was 
a  thing  no  talking  could  possibly  alter. 

It  had  so  long  been  a  matter  of  creed  that  Father 
might  come  back,  none  had  given  much  thought  to, 
or  had  knowledge  or  imagination  to  realise  the  fact 
that  such  a  return  would  take  more  explaining  than 
the  disappearance.  Now  that  it  had  happened,  it 
seemed  as  if  there  were  no  explanation  possible.  The 
ugly  truth  stuck  nakedly  out,  that  what  they  had  to 
face  was  scandal  and  possibly  disgrace;  blame  for 
their  father,  shame  for  themselves. 

"Did  you  know  him?"  asked  Luttrell,  after  an  elo- 
quent pause. 

"No,"  said  May.  "I  didn't  think  he  was  a  bit 
like  that." 

"Nor  I,"  confessed  Luttrell.  "Did  you  see  Aunt 
Hermie?  She  looked  awful." 

"I  felt  awful,  didn't  you?  O  Luttrell,  to  think  how 
we  have  all  hoped  for  it  and  thought  of  it,  without 

knowing  a  bit  what  it  would  be  like " 

Reality  paralysed  them.  They  walked  slowly  and 
silently  to  the  big  house  with  the  trim  gravel  drive, 
that  looked  so  blatantly,  so  scornfully  respectable; 
and  felt  small  and  shady  and  discredited. 

"What  is  that  you  are  saying?"  said  Uncle  Harry, 
incredulously.  "Your  father  come  back?  Come 
back?" 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  89 

Luttrell  nodded,  with  compressed  lips.  May  felt 
herself  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"Where  has  he  been?" 

"He  didn't  say— not  yet,"  faltered  Luttrell. 

At  this  juncture  Aunt  Nell  burst  out  crying.  May 
followed  suit.  Uncle  Harry  fussed  and  tch-tched  and 
told  them  not  to  give  way;  and  looked  from  time  to 
time  at  Luttrell,  standing  mute  and  miserable,  wishing 
he  could  disappear  too.  When  the  tears  were  checked, 
there  was  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

"What's  going  to  be  done  now?"  asked  Uncle  Harry, 
looking  out  of  the  window  with  his  back  squarely 
turned  to  the  room. 

"Won't  you  come  back  with  us  and  see  him?"  sug- 
gested Luttrell,  uncertainly;  and  May  added,  still  with 
a  suspicion  of  tearfulness,  "That's  what  we  came  for." 

"I  suppose  we  had  better,"  said  Uncle  Harry,  with 
sudden  briskness,  taking  command  of  the  situation. 
"Get  ready,  my  dear,  will  you?  We  will  go  and  hear 
all  about  it." 

On  the  way  down,  a  rather  silent  walk,  Uncle  Harry 
fired  off  a  question  or  two. 

"How  does  he  look?" 

"Very  well,"  answered  Luttrell. 

"Very  well!"  repeated  Aunt  Nell,  with  a  sort  of 
gasp. 

"Big,  and  brown,  and "  Luttrell  hesitated  for 

the  rest.  "Old;'  he  added. 

"He  has  a  scar,"  supplemented  May. 

"A  scar?" 

"On  his  head;  a  horrible  place." 


90      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

They  digested  this  in  silence. 
"How  did  your  mother  take  it?"  asked  Uncle  Harry 
of  Luttrell,  after  a  pause. 

"You  couldn't  tell,"  he  compromised. 

"She  came  down  to  lunch,  and  looked  round  and 
got  up  and  said  nothing;  and  he  made  her  sit  down 
again  and  made  Lennox  give  him  the  carvers,  and 
helped  the  lunch." 

"Helped  the  lunch!"  echoed  Aunt  Nell,  feebly. 

"What  did  Hermione  say?"  asked  Uncle  Harry, 
after  another  stretch  of  road  had  been  covered. 

"She  has  gone  to  tell  the  Rector  and  Lady  Kath- 
erine,"  parried  Luttrell,  dexterously.  "We  came  here, 
and  she  went  to  them." 

Uncle  Harry  muttered  something  like  "Needn't  be 
in  a  cast-iron  hurry  over  that"  and  hit  at  a  stone  with 
his  walking  stick. 

"And  Lennox?"  he  continued,  presently.  "Was  Len- 
nox there?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Harry,"  burst  out  May,  with  an  irrepres- 
sible laugh,  "Lennox  was  quite  meek:  and  Dot  put  on 
her  society  frills  and  he  took  no  notice!" 

They  both  laughed  at  the  recollection. 

"Aunt  Hermie  looked  awful,"  declared  May,  pres- 
ently, in  a  low  voice,  to  her  aunt. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  whispered  Aunt  Nell,  on  the  verge 
of  tears  again. 

It  was  with  real  dread,  and  hearts  that  throbbed 
painfully,  that  they  entered  The  Meadows. 

"Hullo,  Harry,"  called  Mr.  Desmond.  "Here  you 
are!" 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  91 

And  that  was  all. 

The  questions  crowding  to  their  lips  were  never 
asked.  This  was  a  stranger.  In  the  guise  of  David — 
with  David's  voice  and  David's  eyes,  there  was  an 
alien  of  whom  one  asked  nothing,  of  whom  one  was 
more  than  a  little  in  awe.  One  from  whom  no  ex- 
planations or  apologies  would  be  forthcoming;  a  close- 
lipped  alien,  whose  breeding  and  refinement  were  over- 
laid with  who  knew  what  weathering — danger,  vice, 
or  brutality — none  could  tell. 

"Good  God,"  exclaimed  worthy  Harry  Desmond  to 
himself,  genuinely  shocked.  "What  can  have  hap- 
pened to  him!  He  looks  like  an  ex-convict." 

Aunt  Hermione,  meanwhile,  went  to  find  Mr.  Ray- 
mond. Since  his  widowerhood,  she  had  not  gone  to 
the  Rectory  without  some  kind  of  an  escort,  and  her 
unceremonious  entry,  pushing  past  old  Sarah  with, 
"Is  the  Rector  in?  Where  shall  I  find  him?"  as  she 
made  for  the  smoking-room,  left  the  old  servant  aghast. 

"What  hever  can  'ave  'appened?"  she  wondered. 

Mr.  Raymond  took  his  feet  off  the  seat  of  the  other 
chair,  apologised  for  having  had  them  there,  and  shook 
up  a  cushion  to  make  it  a  fit  resting-place  for  her. 

"To  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  and  privilege,"  he 
was  beginning,  in  humorous  vein,  when  he  met  her 
eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Desmond?  My  dear  friend,  what 
has  so  upset  you?" 

He  held  both  her  hands,  and  felt  how  she  was  shak- 
ing. His  concern  grew  to  alarm,  as  she  struggled  for 
speech. 


92      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"David  is  back?"  he  bent  his  head  to  hear.  "David 
is Do  you  mean  your  brother?  David  back?" 

She  looked  at  him  despairingly  and  nodded,  swal- 
lowing the  sobs  that  were  strangling  her. 

"But  how  splendid,"  he  cried.  "And  how  jolly  of 
you  to  come  and  tell  me!  When?  Why?  How? 
Where  from?  I  say!  This  is  a  bit-of-all-right!  Sit 
down  and  tell  me." 

He  attributed  her  emotion  to  joy. 

She  could  not  be  induced  to  sit,  but  leant  against 
the  mantel-piece,  clutching  one  of  his  hands  convul- 
sively and  avoiding  his  eyes. 

"At  lunch.  Just  walked  in  and  hung  up  his  coat 
and  hat  in  the  hall.  As  if  he  had  gone  out  after  break- 
fast." 

Her  voice  was  breaking.  The  tears  would  not  be 
denied  much  longer. 

"I  say!     What  a  lark." 

"He  simply  said,  'Where  is  your  mother?'  and 
started  t-t-to  c-c-c-arve  the  joint." 

"And  what  did  you  all  do?" 

"Nothing.  He  m-m-ade  us  all  move  up  and  make 
a  fresh  place  at  the  table.  Oh,  Charlie,  he  never 
kissed  us  or  said  a  word  to  anyone,  except  Honoria — 
except  her.  Never  said  anything " 

The  recital  tailed  off  into  sobs;  and  Mr.  Raymond 
was  man  enough  to  seize  his  opportunity. 

"I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it,"  said  the  Rector, 
a  little  later,  still  holding  her  and  stroking  her  hands. 
"Of  course  he  will  tell  us  something — some  story  one 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  93 

can  repeat?  How  long  is  it  now?  Fifteen  years?  I 
never  heard  such  a  thing!" 

"He  has  a  terrible  place  on  his  head — perhaps  that 
is  the  explanation " 

"We'll  ask  him,"  said  the  Rector,  hopefully.  "He 
is  sure  to  have  an  explanation  of  some  sort." 

They  went  together,  considerably  later,  to  call  at 
The  Domain.  Lady  Katherine  was  in  the  lower  gar- 
den; and  there  they  found  her,  pacing  the  long  walk 
with  the  herbaceous  borders. 

"This  is  very  kind,"  she  said,  with  her  old-world 
courtesy.  "You  will  be  of  great  service,  Mr.  Raymond, 
if  you  will  be  so  very  good  as  to  help  me  up  the  terrace 
steps.  But  it  is  not  time  yet  for  me  to  go  in.  Pres- 
ently; presently." 

Her  breeding  would  not  let  her  notice  their  agitation, 
nor  allude  to  the  unusual  nature  of  their  call,  together. 

"Miss  Desmond  has  come  to  tell  you  some  news, 
Lady  Katherine,"  began  the  Rector.  "Some  very 
startling  news." 

Into  the  old  lady's  face  leapt  something  like  fear. 

"My  brother  has  come  back,  Lady  Katherine,"  said 
the  younger  woman,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Every  vestige  of  colour  drained  from  Lady  Kath- 
erine's  face.  She  stood  for  a  moment  absolutely  still, 
as  if  struck  into  stone;  then  tottered  forward  a  few 
steps  on  her  stick,  Mr.  Raymond  catching  her  by  the 
arm  just  in  time  to  prevent  her  falling. 

They  helped  her  to  a  garden  seat  and  made  her 
lower  her  head  between  her  knees  while  they  called 


94      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

a  gardener  and  sent  him  for  some  brandy.  The  butler 
came,  and  the  housekeeper  came,  and  m'lady's  own 
maid  came,  and  the  Chinese  "nurse"  came;  and  be- 
tween them  they  got  her  on  to  the  sofa  in  her  morning- 
room. 

Peremptorily  she  ordered  them  all  away  and  insisted 
on  hearing  the  rest  of  the  story  from  her  callers. 

When  they  had  told  all  that  could  be  told,  she  turned 
her  head  wearily  on  the  cushion,  her  lips  moving, 
slow  tears  trickling  down  her  worn  cheeks.  Like  Mr. 
Desmond,  she  made  no  attempt  at  explanation.  After 
a  while  she  asked  them  to  ring  for  her  maid;  and  when 
they  left,  said, 

"Let  me  know — to-morrow — anything  more  there 
is  to  know." 

They  promised;  and  got  away  in  a  state  of  uneasi- 
ness nothing  could  exceed. 

"What  does  she  know  about  it,  Charlie?"  asked 
Miss  Desmond,  feverishly;  and  he  could  only  shake 
his  head,  and  advise  her  to  say  nothing  about  it  to 
anyone  else. 

Mr.  Raymond  had  never  cared  to  face  anything 
less,  than  this  meeting  with  his  old  friend.  He  had 
once  gone  to  the  prison  gates  to  meet  a  man  he  knew 
well  after  a  term  of  hard  labour;  but  he  had  not  felt 
so  awkward  even  then  as  he  did  now. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  but,  "Hullo,  Charlie!  Still 
at  the  old  job?  You've  put  on  a  bit  of  embonpoint, 
old  man.  If  you  don't  take  care  you'll  lose  sight  of 
your  toes  for  ever." 

The  hand-shake  was  hearty,  the  greeting  was  natural, 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  95 

it  was  all  as  if  he  had  gone  away  for  no  more  than 
a  holiday.  But  there  was  an  impenetrable  barrier 
holding  them  back;  a  determination,  far  stronger  than 
their  love,  their  curiosity,  or  even  their  resentment, 
which  checked  enquiry  and  inspired  fear,  and  made 
of  this  man  an  alien  and  an  enemy. 

And  the  sinister  scar  remained  unaccounted  for. 
No  one  durst  ask,  or  allude  to  it.  It  was  plainly 
noticeable,  and  with  any  exertion  would  redden  and 
glisten.  His  fingers  often  sought  it,  as  if  feeling  for 
a  tender  place;  but  he  never  spoke  of  it,  and  none 
knew  how  he  came  by  it.  It  added  to  and  was  part 
of  the  sinister  atmosphere  that  surrounded  his  person- 
ality. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"THAT  DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER" 

ARTHUR  GERVASE,  coming  home  from  the  Manor 
Farm,  where  he  had  been  having  tea  with  jolly  Tom 
Leigh  and  his  racketty  niece,  heard  the  extraordinary 
news  of  Mr.  Desmond's  return  with  a  mixture  of  amuse- 
ment and  incredulity.  The  latter  predominated. 

"Oh,  you  have  got  hold  of  some  cock-and-bull  story," 
he  said,  when  old  Adams,  his  grandmother's  groom, 
told  him  the  tale.  "The  man's  dead,  Adams.  He  has 
been  dead  for  years." 

"Begging  your  parding,  Master  Arthur,  but  that's 
what  they  are  a-saying.  It's  all  over  the  village. 
The  servants  at  The  Meadows,  they  told  the  grocer's 
cart;  and  Tenterley,  he  saw  him,  hisself." 

"Tenterley  wouldn't  know  him,  after  all  these  years," 
scoffed  Gervase.  "Tell  them  not  to  make  idiots  of 
themselves,  Adams." 

"Your  Granma,"  said  Adams,  with  dignity,  declin- 
ing to  pursue  the  topic  any  further,  "your  Granma, 
Master  Arthur,  she's  not  so  well.  Took  bad,  she  was, 
her  ladyship,  this  afternoon.  Parson,  he  was  here; 
and  Miss  Desmond." 

"Really?"  said  Gervase,  with  concern.  "I  must  go 
and  ask  after  her,"  and  he  hurried  into  the  house. 

96 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"  97 

Lady  Katherine  looked  alarmingly  white  and  had 
palpably  been  crying.  Gervase  felt  very  uncomfort- 
able. He  thought  she  looked  very  frail  and  worn,  ly- 
ing there;  not  a  trace  of  her  old  spirit.  She  seemed 
to  have  collapsed  suddenly. 

He  chatted  in  a  desultory  fashion,  trying  to  amuse 
her  telling  her  of  Tom  Leigh  and  his  scamp  of  a 
niece,  and  of  the  funny  little  baby-boy,  her  brother, 
who  used  a  most  dreadful  oath,  and  when  asked  where 
he  had  heard  it,  answered  blandly,  Grannie!  Know- 
ing benign  old  Mrs.  Leigh  so  very  well,  Lady  Kath- 
erine could  not  but  laugh. 

"I  hope  he  got  a  good  whipping,  to  make  him  more 
careful,"  she  commented,  with  more  sternness  than 
she  felt. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  asked  Gervase.  "I  have 
not  seen  them  to-day.  Are  they  over  at  The  Meadows? 
By  the  bye,  there  is  a  most  extraordinary  yarn  go- 
ing about." 

Lady  Katherine's  white  cheeks  turned  to  a  dull 
red. 

"Adams  told  me.  They  are  saying  the  Desmond 
man  has  turned  up  again.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a 
thing?" 

"His  sister  was  here  this  afternoon,"  said  Lady 
Katherine,  struggling  into  a  more  upright  position. 

He  noted  the  colour  with  some  surprise,  but  at- 
tributed it  to  the  effort  to  rise. 

"She  would  have  told  you,  if  there  had  been  any- 
thing in  it,  wouldn't  she?" 

"She  did." 


98      WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"She  did?"  incredulously.    "But  is  it  true?" 

"Yes." 

"The  scoundrel!     Where  has  he  been?" 

"Ah!     Where?" 

He  whistled. 

"Well,  I'm  blessed.  What  a  blighter.  What  are 
we  going  to  do  about  it,  Gran?" 

"It  is  no  business  of  ours,"  said  the  old  lady,  slowly. 
"Mrs.  Desmond  is  a  friend  of  mine;  whatever  line 
she  takes,  we  must  be  guided  by." 

"All  the  same,  Gran,  one  doesn't  want  to  go  to  the 
house  of  a  fellow  like  that!  Why,  it  is  years — how 
long  is  it?" 

"Fifteen  years,"  she  answered.  It  sounded  like  a 
knell. 

Suddenly  Gervase  laughed. 

"What  a  queer  crowd  we  are,"  he  chuckled.  "Des- 
mond, deserts  his  family  for  fifteen  years;  Mother, 
sends  us  adrift;  Teresa,  deserted  by  her  husband;  and 
Lance  and  Guin  deserted  by  her!  Strange  that  neither 
of  those  two,  or  little  Kythe  Desmond,  should  ever 
have  seen  their  fathers." 

Lady  Katherine  was  oddly  silent.  Looking  at  her, 
he  saw  she  was  so  white,  he  feared  another  fainting 
attack.  Ringing  for  her  maid,  he  asked  what  the 
doctor  had  said. 

"Rest,  Master  Arthur,  and  keep  quiet,  and  light 
diet,  and  not  to  talk  too  much  nor  see  visitors." 

"I  had  better  leave  her,  then.  I'm  afraid  I  have 
talked  too  much.  Let  me  know  if  she  wants  me,  or 
if  I  can  do  anything." 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"  99 

He  went  away  and  dressed  for  dinner;  and  found 
Lance  and  Guin  in  the  smoking-room,  looking  rather 
disconsolate. 

"You  look  very  glum,  young  people!"  he  observed. 

"Well,  it's  beastly,"  said  Lance,  unaffectedly. 

"What  is?  Explain  yourself,  pup,  as  to  this  thus- 
ness." 

Lance  was  silent,  unwilling  to  broach  his  grievance. 

"Hubert's  and  Hero's  father's  come  home,"  inter- 
posed Guin;  "and  they  thought  we'd  better  not  come 
to-day." 

"And  can't  you  manage  without  them  for  so  much 
as  one  day?" 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Lance,  impatiently;  and  again 
stopped,  unwilling  to  go  to  the  heart  of  the  trouble. 

"Hero'd  been  crying,"  supplemented  Guin;  "and 
Kythe'd  been  crying,  and  Aunt  Hermie'd  been  cry- 
ing, and  Hubert  wanted  to  cry  too,  only  he  was 
'shamed;  and  May  had  been  crying  lots,  and  so  had 
Mrs.  Desmond  from  Fairlands.  We  saw  her  go 
away." 

"Some  people  cry,  you  know,  Guin,  when  they  are 
very  glad.  If  they  have  been  very  sorry  and  then 
become  very  glad,  they  often  cry." 

Guin  shook  her  sagacious  head. 

"They  weren't  glad,  any  of  them.  Were  they, 
Lance?" 

Lance  shook  -his  head,  not  committing  himself  to 
speech. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Aunt  Hermie  said  good-bye  to  Mr,  Raymond  at 


ioo    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

the  garden  door.  She  said  'Dreadful,  isn't  it?'  and 
then  saw  us  coming  and  said  nothing  more  till  we'd 
gone.  She  was  holding  Mr.  Raymond's  hand  tight, 
and  they  looked— awful.  Kythe's  sick,  she's  cried 
such  a  lot.  Hero  says  she's  had  to  go  to  bed  and  they 
don't  want  Mrs.  Desmond  to  know." 

"I  saw  him,"  said  Lance,  suddenly  and  savagely. 
"I  hate  him.  He's  a  swine." 

"I  say!"  remonstrated  Gervase.  "You  mustn't  use 
language  like  that!  Where  did  you  pick  up  such  ex- 
pressions? You  wouldn't  like  Gran  to  hear  that?" 

"And  look  at  Gran,"  went  on  Lance,  his  grievance 
on  top  at  last.  "She's  sick  too;  and  you  bet  it  is  all 
because  of  him." 

"Nonsense,  silly  goose.  Gran  is  ill,  poor  darling, 
because  she  is  an  old  lady  and  has  been  doing  more 
than  she  is  strong  enough  for.  What  possible  effect 
could  Mr.  Desmond  have  on  her?" 

"I  know  it's  because  of  him,"  persisted  Lance. 
"She  was  ill  as  soon  as  the  Rector  and  Aunt  Hermie 
came  to  tell  her.  I  wish  he'd  been  dead — murdered 
— like  we  thought  he  was." 

It  was  absurd;  but  this  talk  with  the  children  made 
Gervase  more  uneasy  than  he  could  have  explained. 
Their  vindictive  anger  against  a  man  who  had  done 
them  neither  harm  nor  good  seemed  inexplicable,  in  the 
first  place;  and  it  gave  him  a  worried  feeling  that  per- 
haps they  were  going  to  turn  out  like  their  mother, 
wayward,  uncontrolled  and  violent.  Then  it  was  cu- 
rious, if  true,  that  it  was  Miss  Desmond's  news  that 
had  caused  Lady  Katherine's  illness;  and  he  again 


IOI 

had  a  worried  feeling  that  what  he  had  said  about 
Mr.  Desmond  had  made  her  change  colour  and  then 
nearly  faint.  And,  queerest  of  all,  was  the  tidings 
that  The  Meadows  was  plunged  in  grief  and  not  joy; 
and  that  Kythe,  who  held  her  mother's  creed  concern- 
ing the  missing  Mr.  Desmond,  had  cried  herself  sick 
on  account  of  his  return.  It  was  very  mysterious. 

He  could  not  go  and  enquire,  as  Guin  said  Kythe's 
state  was  being  kept  from  Mrs.  Desmond.  He  would 
not  go  and  call  on  this  man  who  had  come  back;  and 
he  could  not  drop  in  as  if  he  did  not  know  that  any- 
thing had  happened.  He  was  inclined  to  agree  with 
Lance  that  it  was  all  beastly. 

After  dinner,  he  strolled  up  and  down  the  lane,  go- 
ing out  by  the  side  door  and  lingering  near  the  door 
in  The  Meadows'  garden  wall.  It  hardly  surprised 
him  that  it  opened,  and  that  Kythe  stood  there.  She 
looked  as  if  she,  too,  were  plotting  a  sudden  disap- 
pearance! 

"Is  it  your  turn?"  he  chaffed,  tenderly.  Then  see- 
ing that  she  was  too  much  moved  for  jest,  he  took 
her  arm  and  strolled  up  the  lane  with  her. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  bed  ill,"  he  remarked.  "Guin 
told  me." 

"I  couldn't  get  to  sleep,"  said  Kythe;  and  then  broke 
out  crying. 

He  consoled  her  as  best  he  could,  and  heard  her, 
with  intense  distress,  gasp,  "Mother!  Oh,  poor 
Mother;  Mother,"  over  and  over  again.  From  the 
open  French  window  came  the  deep  notes  of  a  man's 
voice,  and  laughter  and  sounds  of  good  fellowship. 


102    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Mr.  Desmond  was  evidently  making  himself  agree- 
able in  the  family  circle.  Gervase  marvelled. 

He  gathered  from  the  distressed  girl,  when  she  was 
at  last  able  to  control  her  bitter  weeping,  that  Mrs. 
Desmond  was  one  of  the  friendly  party  in  the  draw- 
ing-room: that  Mr.  Desmond  had  made  no  faintest 
attempt  to  explain  his  absence  or  his  return;  and  that 
no  one  ventured  to  ask  him. 

"Everyone's  afraid,"  mourned  Kythe,  half-sob^ 
bing. 

"Afraid  of  him?"  gasped  Gervase,  shocked. 

"Oh,  no;  not  of  him,"  explained  Kythe.  "Afraid  of 
what  he  might  say;  what  he  might  tell.  Uncle  Harry, 
and  Aunt  Hermie,  and  Mr.  Raymond,  and  all.  They 
don't  want  to  have  to  know  it,  if  it's — if  it " 

She  broke  off  eloquently. 

Gervase  did  not  ask  any  more  questions.  He  had 
a  feeling  that  it  would  be  like  peeping  through  a  key- 
hole. He  got  Kythe's  thoughts  on  to  other  subjects, 
and  sent  her  in  to  bed  a  trifle  cheered  and  comforted. 
But  he  went  back  to  The  Domain  feeling  that  Lance 
and  Guin  were  not  far  wrong  in  their  summing  up  of 
the  situation. 

In  their  bedroom,  that  night,  Lennox  and  his  wife 
thrashed  things  out,  in  a  virtuous  indignation  that  had 
not  yet  found  its  full  expression. 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  blazing  scandal,"  groused  Len- 
nox. "There  is  no  explaining  it  away.  He  wasn't  ill, 
he  wasn't  murdered,  he  wasn't  mad,  he  wasn't  even 
unhappy.  He  must  have  just  gone  off  with  another 
woman — like  people  used  to  say." 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"         103 

"It  is  awful  for  your  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Lennox, 
with  an  unwonted  shudder  of  sympathy. 

"It  is  going  to  be  awful  for  us  all,"  returned  Len- 
nox. "Did  you  spot  Uncle  Harry?  He  was  bowled 
over.  Completely.  And  what  makes  me  so  angry  is, 
he  does  not  seem  to  have  any  intention  of  explaining." 

"You  ought  to  make  him,  Len.  For  your  mother's 
sake,  you  ought." 

This  idea  was  gratifying  to  Lennox.  He  saw  him- 
self posing  as  the  champion  of  the  mother  he  had 
protected  and  cared  for  all  these  years.  It  was  a 
seductive  idea.  He  felt  he  could  play  the  part  well. 

"Of  course,  mother  isn't  fit  to  look  after  her  own 
interests.  She  never  was.  I  can  rub  that  in  a  bit; 
but  the  law  will  be  on  his  side  all  along  the  line,  now 
she  has  taken  him  back." 

"Well,  anyway,  give  him  a  bit  of  your  mind." 

"He  deserves  it,"  quoth  Lennox.  "A  scandalous, 
thing.  He  really  is  an  awful  rascal,  and  no  fit 
guardian  for  the  girls;  nor  for  Hubert,  for  that  matter. 
Fifteen  years,  good  Lord.  Fifteen  years  on  the  ran- 
dan; and  comes  back  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  to  take 
things  up  where  he  left  them  off,  as  if  he  had  only  been 
away  for  a  fortnight!  It  is  incredible.  If  you  read  it 
in  a  book  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  You  would  say 
it  was  overdrawn!" 

Lennox  was  very  fond  of  saying  that. 

The  next  day  was  very  unlike  anything  that  could 
have  been  imagined.  Everyone  woke  up  with  a  sense 
of  big  happenings  and  a  feeling  of  excitement;  nothing 
could  have  been  more  commonplace  than  the  actual. 


104    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Mr.  Desmond  came  in  to  breakfast  from  the  garden, 
bringing  a  few  flowers,  as  he  had  always  done,  to  lay 
beside  his  wife's  plate;  and  kissing  her  as  he  had  never 
done,  and  as  they  all  disliked  seeing  him  do,  when 
she  came  into  the  room.  He  helped  the  bacon  and 
eggs,  told  Lennox  to  carve  the  ham  and  brawn,  and 
then  opened  the  newspaper,  looking  over  the  top  of 
it  to  ask  Mrs.  Desmond,  "Any  news  in  your  letters?" 

"Not  much,"  answered  Mrs.  Desmond,  quietly.  "A 
handful  of  circulars,  and  the  painter's  bill,  and  an 
offer  for  the  heifer,  and  an  application  for  the  chauf- 
feur's place." 

"Better  let  me  have  those,"  said  Mr.  Desmond. 

She  passed  them  down  to  him,  not  noticing  that 
Lennox  detained  them  in  his  hand. 

"A  letter  from  Mrs.  Maitland,  saying  they  will  be 
in  London  in  October,  and  want  to  see  something  of 
us;  and  one  from  Nana's  great-niece  to  say  the  old 
woman  is  a  good  deal  feebler.  I  think  one  of  us 
ought  to  go  down,  David.  She  will  not  last  much 
longer,  I  am  afraid,  and  that  foolish  Annie  never  had 
wits  to  face  an  emergency." 

"We  can  go  down  next  Saturday,"  said  Mr.  Des- 
mond, gravely. 

Old  Nana  had  nursed  Mr.  Desmond  and  trained 
Mary,  and  was  the  mother  of  Moore. 

Lennox  still  held  the  sheaf  of  bills  his  mother  had 
passed  along.  Mr.  Desmond  held  out  his  hand  for 
them. 

"Had  we  not  better  go  into  those  presently  to- 
gether," said  Lennox,  in  his  most  business-like  manner. 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"          105 

Mr.  Desmond  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Then 
returned  to  his  newspaper. 

"Gives  in  at  once,"  thought  Lennox,  putting  the 
papers  beside  his  plate.  "One  has  only  to  stand  up  to 
him  and  he  collapses." 

The  breakfast  was  rather  a  silent  one.  The  girls 
eyed  their  mother  furtively,  striving  to  find  some  sign 
that  would  give  a  clue  to  her  feelings.  Mrs.  Desmond 
poured  out  the  tea  and  coffee  with  steady  hand,  and 
with  her  usual  dignity.  The  troubled  look  had 
deepened  in  her  eyes,  and  the  faint  crease  in  ',he 
smooth  forehead,  between  the  brows,  had  suddenly 
cut  itself  in  with  sharp  intensity.  May  noted  this 
with  acute  pain. 

Once  or  twice  she  seemed  to  lose  herself,  as  her 
way  was,  in  her  fancies;  and  the  absent,  far-off  gaze 
came  into  her  eyes.  She  pulled  herself  back  hastily, 
with  a  little  quivering  sigh,  and  concentrated  on  her 
duties.  Towards  the  end  of  breakfast,  she  lost  her- 
self entirely,  and  one  of  her  whispered  monologues 
was  in  progress,  with  gesture  of  head  and  hand,  when 
Mr.  Desmond  caught  sight  of  her. 

May  and  Luttrell  saw  him  watch  her  furtively,  him- 
self watched. 

"Mother!"  called  Lennox,  in  disapproval.     "Don't." 

A  lightning  glance  from  the  keen  blue,  watchful  eyes 
shot  at  him. 

"Is  there  a  drain  more  in  your  pot,  dear?"  asked 
Mr.  Desmond,  on  the  instant.  "Just  a  drain." 

He  had  always  wanted  "Just  a  drain"  before  finish- 
ing. 


io6    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Getting  up,  he  carried  his  cup  round  instead  of 
passing  it,  pressing  his  hand  on  Mrs.  Desmond's  neck 
as  he  waited,  and  drawing  her  face  to  his  stooping 
one  as  he  took  the  brimming  cup.  The  scar  showed, 
an  angry  red. 

The  children  turned  their  eyes  away.  It  was  even 
more  hateful  than  Lennox's  impertinence. 

Where  had  "he"  picked  up  these  ways?  Who  had 
he  been  associating  with?  It  made  them  shrink  to 
the  very  marrow  of  their  bones. 

What  did  Mother  feel  about  it? 

Aunt  Hermione,  who,  like  Kythe,  had  swollen  eye- 
lids, and  a  headache  as  well  as  a  heartache,  kept  the 
conversational  ball  rolling  with  some  credit,  ably 
seconded  by  Mrs.  Lennox,  who,  in  the  caustic  phrase 
of  the  impudent  Luttrell,  was  showing  off  before  the 
Governor. 

"Fat  lot  he  cares  for  her  opinions!"  supplemented 
Hubert.  "What  are  we  to  call  him?  Pater?  Guv- 
nor? Mr.  Desmond?  Father" — long  drawn  out,  in 
some  ridicule — "or  Papa,  like  we  used.  Papa!  Pa. 
How  about  Pa?  Ease  combined  with  elegance; 
friendly  and  not  familiar.  I  vote  for  Pa." 

"I  don't  want  to  call  him  anything,"  said  Kythe, 
fiercely.  "He's  made  Mother  more  mis'ble  than  she 
was,  and  I  hate  him." 

Luttrell  put  his  arm  round  her  and  rocked  her 
against  him. 

"Gently,  gently,  Ky.  It  will  make  Mother  more 
mis'ble  than  anything  if  we  row  with  him.  It's  a 
case  of  open  your  mouth  and  shut  your  eyes,  and 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"         107 

swallow  the  Pa  a  Good  God  has  seen  fit  to  punish 
you  with." 

"Lennox  has  gone  to  have  a  row  with  him,"  ob- 
served May.  She  came  to  take  dreary  counsel  with 
"the  children"  because  Aunt  Hermione  had  basely 
deserted  her  and  gone  off  with  Mr.  Raymond.  May 
felt  too  forlorn  to  stand  on  her  dignity. 

"Old  Lennox  going  to  row  with  him!  Oh,  I  wish 
I  could  hear.  Where?  In  the  smoking-room? 
Holy  Moses,  I  didn't  think  Len  really  had  the  grit!" 

"They  are  in  the  dining-room,"  said  May.  "All 
of  them — Mother  too!  He  shut  the  door." 

This  was  serious.  However,  it  did  not  last  long. 
Mr.  Desmond  was  heard  calling  to  the  dog,  and  Mrs. 
Desmond  went  upstairs.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lennox 
strolled  in  the  garden.  They  all  went  out. 

Presently  he  called, 

"What  time  does  the  mail  go  out?" 

In  English  villages  the  "post"  goes  out.  People  do 
not  talk  of  the  "mail."  The  unfamiliar  expression 
struck  them  all. 

"The  post  goes  out  at  11:20,"  called  back  Lennox. 

Mr.  Desmond  appeared  on  the  terrace,  smiling,  a 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"Thanks  for  putting  your  father  right,  Lennox. 
It  was  always  your  pleasant  way.  Who  will  come 
with  me  to  the  village?" 

There  was  a'  perceptible  pause,  during  which  his 
face  hardened. 

"I  will,"  said  Hero. 

"So'll  I,"  said  Hubert. 


io8    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

They  confided  to  each  other  afterwards  that  they 
were  afraid  not  to. 

He  dropped  his  letter  into  the  box  without  their 
seeing  the  address,  bought  some  stamps,  stopped  at 
Tenterley's  for  some  nails,  buying  them  and  passing 
the  time  of  day  with  the  old  man,  as  if  he  had  been 
there  the  day  before. 

"Powerful  long  time  you've  stopped  away,  Sir,"  said 
the  sturdy  old  man,  who  was  not  afraid  of  prince  or 
peer. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Desmond.  "Time  does  fly. 
Those  trees  of  Barton's  are  doing  well,  Tenterley. 
It  was  a  very  good  speculation,  wasn't  it?" 

"I  call  it  an  investment,  Sir,  not  a  speculation  to 
plant  a  tree,"  said  the  old  carpenter. 

"So  it  is,  so  it  is.  It  is  what  every  man  should 
do.  Plant  a  tree,  beget  a  son,  and  strike  a  blow  at  the 
right  time — that's  wisdom,  Tenterley." 

"You've  left  something  out,  Sir." 

"What?" 

"Do  his  duty,  Sir." 

"Very  true,  Tenterley.  Is  that  Turton  over  there? 
Why,  so  it  is." 

Mr.  Turton  felt  quite  as  strongly  as  Tenterley, 
but  was  not  minded  to  express  himself.  He  lifted 
his  hat  and  passed  by  gravely;  and  went  to  find 
Browning  and  give  vent  to  his  amazement  that  the 
Desmond  man's  family  were  out  with  him.  As  if 
nothing  had  happened!  What  a  world. 

The  question  of  what  to  call  their  father  was  a 
real  difficulty.  He  had  always  insisted  on  "papa," 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"         109 

because  that  was  what  he  called  his  own  father.  But 
"papa"  was  manifestly  absurd. 

When  Hubert  impudently  took  matters  into  his 
own  hands  and  addressed  him  as  Pa,  in  a  dashing, 
off-hand  manner,  as  if  he  had  done  it  for  years,  they 
nearly  exploded  with  joy. 

Pa  it  was;  and  Pa  it  remained.  Kythe  alone  called 
him  Father. 

Lennox  adopted  a  tone  of  haughty  aloofness.  His 
father,  apparently  much  amused,  everlastingly  roasted 
him. 

"Did  you  volunteer  for  South  Africa?"  asked  Mr. 
Desmond. 

"No,"  answered  Lennox,  emphatically. 

"Why  not?     You  weren't  married  then?" 

"It  was  no  business  of  mine,"  retorted  Lennox. 

Mr.  Desmond  laughed. 

Lennox  resented  his  dethronement  bitterly.  His  en- 
counter with  his  father  had  been  sharp  and  not  sweet. 

"Give  me  those  letters?"  Mr.  Desmond  said,  ques- 
tioningly. 

"I  want  to  know  something  of  where  you  have 
been  and  what  you  have  been  doing  these  fifteen 
years,  before  we  hand  you  over  control  of  all  our 
affairs  again,"  said  Lennox,  not  without  dignity.  "For 
fifteen  years  this  place  has  been  run  on  my  mother's 
income,  left  her  by  my  grandfather,  Col.  Lennox- 
Luttrell." 

Mr.  Desmond's  keen  eyes  showed  bright  for  a  mo- 
ment between  the  narrowed  lids. 

"It  is  practically  hers.    She  has  kept  it  up,  she 


no    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

has  paid  the  insurance,  the  servants,  the  ground  rent, 
and  rates  and  taxes.  We  have  managed  without  you, 
and  you  have  left  us  to  manage  as  best  we  could.  Be- 
fore you  interfere  here  again,  we  have  a  right  to  know 
what  you  have  been  doing." 

"The  right?" 

"Yes.  The  right.  How  do  I  know,  for  instance, 
that  you  are  not  an  escaped  criminal,  or  a  ticket-of- 
leave  man,  or  that  you  may  not  bring  a  swarm  of 
loose  characters,  male  and  female,  on  the  place?  I 
have  to  protect  my  brothers  and  sisters  from  that; 
it  would  be  criminal  if  I  did  not.  And  my  mother — 
she  has  suffered  very  much — your  behaviour  might 
have  cost  her  her  reason.  Lots  of  people  say  she  has 
suffered  in  that  way." 

"You  would  like  to  be  in  a  position  to  prove  that, 
perhaps,  so  as  to  bring  an  action  to  get  the  custody 
of  her  person  and  the  control  of  her  income?" 

It  was  a  shrewd  thrust. 

"It  is  my  duty  to  satisfy  myself  that  you  are  a 
fit  person  to  have  custody  and  control  of  them,  and 
of  my  sisters.  I  want  to  know  where  you  have  been, 
what  you  have  done,  and  what  references  you  can  give 
as  to  the  truth  of  your  statements." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Desmond,  genially.  "He's 
a  great  boy,  isn't  he,  Mother?  Don't  be  an  ass,  Len- 
nox. If  you  and  I  come  to  loggerheads,  there'll  be 
all  the  less  for  those  whining  little  brats  of  yours; 
don't  forget  that.  Shut  your  head  now,  and  voetsag." 

Lennox  did  not  know  what  voetsag  was,  but  he 
did  it. 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"         in 

Lance  and  Gum  came  in  that  afternoon,  not  ask- 
ing questions,  as  the  subject  of  parents  was  one  that 
left  them  cold;  but  anxious  for  someone  to  come 
with  them  and  investigate  a  huge  tree-hollow  reputed 
to  be  full  of  owls.  Hero  and  Hubert  joyfully  volun- 
teered; and  the  reluctant  Kythe,  who  found  her  place 
at  her  mother's  side  occupied  eternally  by  this  man 
with  the  brutal  face  and  pleasant  voice,  went  with 
them,  sore  of  heart  but  full  of  a  lurking  hope  that 
they  might  meet  Major  Gervase. 

It  was  May  and  Luttrell,  however,  going  to  en- 
quire after  Lady  Katherine,  who  met  him. 

"Gran  is  better  to-day,"  he  said;  "but  she  has  to 
be  kept  awfully  quiet.  I  don't  think  she  should  see 
even  your  mother.  Mrs.  Leigh  is  coming  for  a  few 
moments  to-morrow.  How  are  you  all?" 

That  was  as  near  as  he  dared  get  to  the  crisis! 

"Jogging  along,  jogging  along,  tural-lural,"  replied 
Luttrell,  facetiously.  "The  children  are  off  to  catch 
owls  with  butterfly  nets.  I  hope  they  will  come  back 
with  all  their  eyes  and  hair.  Where  are  you  off  to? 
Come  back  for  a  smoke." 

They  went  for  a  walk  first;  and  as  they  got  back, 
were  just  in  time  to  see,  from  the  terrace,  Aunt 
Hermione's  parting  with  Mr.  Raymond  at  the  garden 
door. 

Mr.  Desmond  met  her  in  the  grass  walk  as  she 
came  back,  and  -linked  his  arm  in  hers.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  voluntarily  touched  her. 

Marching  her  up  to  the  terrace,  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Desmond,  his  blue  eyes  laughing, 


ii2    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Raymond  won't  be  a  lonely  widower  much  longer, 
Honoria.  There's  balm  in  Gilead " 

Aunt  Hermione  coloured,  laughed  shamefacedly,  and 
shook  hands  with  Gervase. 

This  was  his  first  sight  of  Desmond.  He  saw  a 
merry,  self-satisfied,  self-possessed  man,  with  a  fresh 
voice  and  a  bold  blue-eyed  stare,  at  peace  with  the 
world,  to  all  appearances.  As  Desmond  came  on  to 
the  terrace,  he  gave  a  quizzical  look  at  the  stranger. 

"Major  Gervase,  David,"  said  Aunt  Hermione;  and 
Mr.  Desmond  gave  him  a  pleasant  and  friendly  greet- 
ing. In  a  few  minutes  they  were  deep  in  the  mysteries 
of  fishing,  and  telling  tales  of  the  famous  trout-pool 
at  the  Manor  Farm. 

Mr.  Desmond  asked  no  personal  questions  of  anyone. 
He  had  not  done  so  since  hearing  about  Kythe.  He 
picked  up  what  was  said  with  surprising  dexterity; 
but — though  he  was  by  no  means  silent — neither  gave 
nor  asked  information.  He  avoided  or  evaded  every 
topic,  and  every  phrase,  likely  to  lead  to  explanations. 

He  did  not  ask,  when  Gervase  left — he  did  not 
stay  long — whether  he  were  married,  or  which  of  the 
Gervases  he  was.  Yet,  somehow,  the  information 
was  supplied.  Mrs.  Desmond  and  Aunt  Hermione, 
prompted  by  their  own  nervousness  and  discomfort, 
dotted  the  i's  and  crossed  the  t's  for  him. 

"Poor  Hugh's  son,"  said  Aunt  Hermione.  "He  died 
so  long  ago — drank  hard.  The  elder  boy  married 
old  Rattler's  daughter — the  one  with  the  dyed  hair — 
and  put  himself  outside  the  pale  socially.  Luckily, 
they  have  no  sons." 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"         113 

Mr.  Desmond  listened  sharply.  He  had  a  way  of 
listening  that,  to  an  experienced  observer,  would  have 
spoken  volumes. 

"Only  a  little  girl,"  pursued  Mrs.  Desmond.  "This 
young  man  will  be  the  heir.  Lady  Katherine  is  de- 
voted to  bim.  How  is  Lady  Katherine  to-day?  Did 
anyone  go  to  enquire?" 

"She  is  a  little  better,  Mums,"  said  May,  "but 
must  be  kept  very  quiet.  Mrs.  Leigh  is  to  see  her  to- 
morrow." 

"Major  Gervase  must  think  me  dreadfully  unfeeling, 
not  to  have  asked  him,"  murmured  Mrs.  Desmond. 

"Come  up  with  me  to  Harry's,  Hermie?"  asked 
Mr.  Desmond. 

They  went  together;  and  conversation  at  the  Harry 
Desmonds'  was  as  limited  and  as  cautious  as  at  The 
Meadows.  Meanwhile  a  fine  riot  of  scandalous  con- 
jecture was  spreading  in  the  neighbourhood;  and  the 
servants  of  all  the  households  in  any  way  connected 
with  the  principals,  and  in  many  entirely  unconnected, 
picked  up  and  passed  round  a  wonderful  variety  of 
assertions,  of  varying  values  and  importance.  As 
usual,  in  such  matters,  truth  was  conspicuous  by  its  ab- 
sence, but  imagination  supplied  her  place  and  she  was 
never  missed. 

Mrs.  Desmond  went  down  the  garden  to  the  flagged 
walk  below  the  roses,  and  paced  up  and  down  slowly, 
head  erect,  eyes'  wide  and  far-seeing,  and  a  return 
of  the  whisperings  and  gesticulations,  widely  at  vari- 
ance with  her  previous  restraint.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
held  herself  in  and  could  now  give  way.  In  between 


ii4    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

the  animated,  whispered  monologues  she  saw  visions — 
David,  a  fairer,  slighter  David,  with  a  face  empty  of 
much  that  branded  it  now,  on  one  knee  beside  her  low 
chair,  whispering  in  her  throat,  "Ready,  darling? 
Come  along,"  or  looking  at  her  quizzically  and  saying, 
"What  deep,  dark  and  desperate  designs  are  you  plot- 
ting now?"  in  adoring  admiration.  And  David,  this 
new  David,  a  coarsened  David,  with  those  same  words 
on  hot  lips — she  would  rather  have  known  him,  in 
truth  and  in  certainty,  dead  and  laid  hard  by  Farmer 
Johnstone's  manure  heap,  all  those  years — all  those 
weary  years — until  they  put  him  into  the  mossy 
Churchyard  under  the  stone  inscribed  with  his  name; 
she  would  rather  that,  bitterly  as  she  had  revolted 
against  it  at  the  time,  than  this  returning. 

She  knew,  past  all  doubt,  that  he  had  lived  with 
another  woman — perhaps  women.  Knowing  that,  she 
did  not  care  to  know  any  more.  Nothing  else  mat- 
tered. He  had  left  her,  not  under  the  stress  of  any 
desperate  misfortune  or  threat,  not  under  violence  or 
restraint,  but  to  go  with  another  woman.  All  her 
past  was  dust  and  ashes,  all  her  hopes  and  regrets 
futile,  all  her  fancies  deception.  The  man  she  had 
loved  so  faithfully  had  never  had  life  or  being. 

And  she  loved  him  still,  this  flesh-and-blood  David, 
the  human  frame  of  the  ideal  that  was  shattered;  the 
bridegroom  of  her  youth  and  the  father  of  her  children. 
He  was  her  lover  again,  and  she  loved  him  while  she 
loathed  him — loved  his  body  while  she  loathed  his  soul. 
Her  relations  with  him  were  odious  to  her,  yet  she  could 
deny  him  nothing.  It  was  useless  to  resent;  the  more 


"DEAD  MEN  RISE  UP  NEVER"         115 

she  dwelt  on  it  the  more  she  hurt  herself.    She  was  of 
those  who  endure,  not  of  those  who  fight. 

The  past  held  no  comfort,  the  future  no  hope.  The 
present  had  to  be  faced  and  lived  out.  She  braced 
herself  for  the  dreary  task,  and  wished  that  she  were 
dead. 


CHAPTER  X 


WHEN  "the  children"  came  back,  without  any  owls 
but  with  stupendous  appetites,  Kythe's  tears  were  al- 
most forgotten.  They  had  had  an  uproarious  after- 
noon, had  been  "chivvied"  by  Lord  Gotto's  game- 
keeper, had  fallen  in  with  a  gypsy,  who  had  read 
their  palms  and  given  them  peppermints,  and  had 
seen  the  first  fight  of  the  season  between  two  stags. 

"I'm  to  be  a  Star  of  the  Footlights,"  announced 
Hero.  "I  shall  have  bouquets  and  diamond  rings 
and  a  tahara  of  rubies." 

"And  a  nice  fool  you'll  look  in  it,"  said  Hubert,  with 
healthy  contempt.  "I'm  to  command  men,  and  sail 
above  their  heads,  and  have  medals  enough  for  a  garter 
twice  round  my  leg." 

"  'Up  in  a  balloon,  boys,'  "  quoted  Lance.  "People 
are  awfully  sea-sick,  in  balloons,  and  sailing  above 
heads  isn't  all  jam.  Mine  is  the  best,  I'm  to  turn  over 
money  like  grain,  and  whatever  I  touch  will  make 
money.  Would  anyone  like  to  lend  me  a  fiver  and  let 
the  interest  run  up?" 

"What  was  yours,  Gum?" 

"Twins,"  said  Guin,  promptly,  "and  ten  more  after 

116 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  117 

that,  and  to  cross  two  oceans.  What  was  yours, 
Kythe?" 

"Can't  remember,"  said  Kythe,  indistinctly. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can.  Guin's  is  rotten,  but  not  as  bad 
as  yours — break  hearts,  wasn't  it?" 

"And  break  my  own  in  the  doing  of  it,  and  dark 
eyes  and  red  hair  will  bring  me  woe,"  gabbled  Kythe, 
defiantly. 

"Dark  eyes  and  red  hair — that's  Uncle  Arthur," 
observed  Lance,  half-emptying  the  jam-pot  at  one 
helping,  so  that  Hubert  raised  a  protest.  "All  right; 
you  can  have  what  I  leave." 

"You  don't  call  his  hair  red,  do  you?"  scoffed  Kythe, 
with  affected  disdain.  In  her  heart  was  dread. 

"What  is  it  if  it  ain't  red?  Guin,  if  you  put  pieces 
of  that  size  into  your  mouth,  I'll  tell  Gran." 

"What  a  yammer,  in  the  playroom,"  remarked  Mr. 
Desmond,  settling  down  to  finish  the  Times. 

"The  Gervase  children  are  there,  from  The  Domain," 
explained  Mrs.  Desmond.  "They  are  noisy,  when  they 
all  get  together.  Lance  and  Guin  Gervase — our  chil- 
dren see  a  lot  of  them,  they  are  all  so  much  the  same 
age  and  live  so  close  to  each  other." 

Mr.  Desmond  made  the  mistake  of  taking  it  for 
granted  that  "the  Gervase  children"  would  be  the  fam- 
ily of  the  Major  Gervase  he  had  seen,  who  was  to  in- 
herit The  Domain.  He  saw  them  all  together  before 
they  left,  and  May  and  Aunt  Hermione  noticed  how 
his  blue  eyes  narrowed  and  how  keenly  he  watched 
Lance.  He  made  no  remarks  about  them  beyond  say- 
ing, 


n8    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Sure  they  are  nice  company  for  the  youngsters? 
Some  of  the  Gervases  are  pretty  queer,  Mama.  We 
ought  to  be  careful." 

"Poor  children,"  sighed  Mrs.  Desmond.  "It  is  a 
dreadful  slur,  having  a  mother  like  theirs." 

Mr.  Desmond  took  this  to  mean  that  Major  Gervase 
had  an  unsatisfactory  wife  too,  and  made  no  further 
remark  except  that  the  Gervases  were  unlucky  in  the 
matter  of  wives. 

Arthur  Gervase  got  into  a  habit  of  lurking  about 
the  lane,  and  Kythe  into  the  corresponding  habit  of 
opening  the  door,  at  about  half-past  nine  at  night. 
The  girl's  heart  was  full  of  resentful  sorrow.  She 
hated  her  father  and  detested  his  close  association  with 
her  mother,  which  naturally  and  inevitably  shut  her 
out.  She  missed  her  mother's  company;  and  most  of 
all  she  missed  her  mother's  dependence  on  her. 

So  she  turned  all  the  more  willingly  to  Gervase;  and 
the  secret  she  could  not  have  kept  from  her  mother, 
in  the  days  when  they  were  so  much  to  each  other,  she 
easily  kept  under  the  new  conditions. 

Arthur  Gervase  knew  the  risk  he  was  running  of 
starting  a  scandal  if  anyone  chanced  to  see  them.  He 
knew  he  had  no  business  to  encourage  this  child  in  clan- 
destine ways.  He  came  less  to  The  Meadows  by  day, 
disliking  equally  to  be  the  guest  of  a  man  like  Mr. 
Desmond,  and  of  a  man  whose  daughter  he  was  en- 
trapping into  a  shady  intrigue. 

The  Rector  came  less  often.  The  Leighs  called, 
but  did  not  come  again.  Harry  Desmond's  wife  sel- 
dom came.  It  dawned  on  them  that  they  were  being 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  119 

avoided.  And  it  also  dawned  on  them  that  Mr.  Des- 
mond had  taken  his  place  in  the  household  so  com- 
pletely and  so  smoothly  that  not  only  had  no  explana- 
tions been  asked  or  given,  but  that  none  could  ever  be 
asked,  and  more — that  the  time  during  which  he  was 
away  seemed  blurred  and  far  distant,  and  the  routine 
of  which  he  was  a  part  had  always  been. 

There  was  no  hitch,  no  jarring  of  the  household 
wheels.  Things  just  went  on,  and  he  was  there  giving 
orders,  yet  not  interfering;  establishing  his  authority, 
yet  not  asserting  it;  watchful,  genial,  secretive  and  un- 
ruffled. 

The  subject  of  where  he  had  been,  occupied  the 
family  increasingly.  Endless  conclaves,  beginning  and 
ending  in  the  same  unsolved  mystery,  were  held  at  the 
Rectory,  at  the  Harry  Desmonds',  at  the  Manor  Farm, 
and  The  Domain;  and  above  all  in  the  playroom  among 
the  young  Desmonds.  The  inscrutable  stranger  who 
was  their  father  gave  no  clue  to  which  their  conjectures 
could  fasten. 

"He  has  been  abroad,"  said  Hubert,  on  one  of  these 
early  occasions,  "because  he  said  that  about  the 
'mail.' " 

"He  never  uses  any  words  I  can  'spot/  "  complained 
Luttrell.  "No  traveller's  words,  no  foreign  ones,  noth- 
ing I  can  get  hold  of." 

"He  has  been  in  some  tremendous  row,"  stated 
Hero,  sagely.  "'That  is  a  fearful  scar  he  has  on  his 
head.  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  it." 

"And  he  is  always  touching  it  and  feeling  it,"  added 
May.  "It  makes  me  feel  sick  when  I  see  him." 


120    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Must  have  been  an  awful  crack,"  opined  Luttrell. 
"Perhaps  he  got  it  in  the  South  African  war.  He 
rotted  you  about  that,  Lennox.  Thought  you  a 
blighter  not  to  have  been." 

"Did  you  ask  him  whether  he  was  there?"  inter- 
posed Hubert.  "Why  didn't  you?  That  would  have 
been  your  opportunity." 

"Well,"  replied  Lennox,  "why  didn't  you  ask?  You 
heard  him  say  it  as  well  as  me." 

"We  are  all  afraid  to  ask  him  anything,"  said  Kythe, 
with  her  direct,  unchildlike  scorn,  as  Hubert  made  no 
reply.  "We  never  dare  ask  him  anything." 

"And  if  we  did,  he  wouldn't  tell,"  retorted  Luttrell. 

"Looks  as  if  he  would  give  you  one  in  the  eye,  in- 
stead of  an  answer,"  said  Hubert.  "Cheerful  parent, 
ain't  he?" 

"And  for  the  last  I  don't-know-how-many-years," 
went  on  Kythe,  with  that  hard  scorn,  "if  any  of  us 
had  been  asked  what  we  would  most  like  to  happen, 
we  would  have  said,  for  Father  to  come  home." 

The  dreadful  truth  of  this  struck  them  dumb. 

"Do  you  remember,"  went  on  Kythe,  unflinchingly, 
and  they  all  looked  at  her  in  a  kind  of  pained  wonder, 
"when  that  body  was  found?  And  we  all  felt,  now 
he  never  will  come  back;  and  how  awful  it  seemed?" 

"Shut  up,  Ky,"  called  Luttrell,  and  Hero  gave  a 
sobbing  cry.  "What's  the  use  of  chewing  on  it?" 

"Who  is  it  says  that  the  heaviest  curse  is  the  grati- 
fied wish?"  asked  May,  with  a  sigh;  and  as  no  one 
supplied  the  requisite  information,  added,  "Suppose 
we  ask  Papa?" 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  121 

"You  daren't,"  scoffed  Hubert.  And  then  tenta- 
tively, "I  wonder  if  he  has  told  Mother?" 

That  was  what  they  all  wondered.  That  was  what 
they  none  of  them  knew.  That  was  a  secret  which 
Mrs.  Desmond  guarded  as  resolutely  and  completely  as 
her  husband  did  the  facts  relating  to  his  disappearance. 

About  a  week  after  his  return,  Aunt  Hermione's  en- 
gagement to  the  Rector  was  announced,  and  the  wed- 
ding was  fixed  for  the  New  Year.  The  children  were 
full  of  excitement  about  it;  May,  Hero,  Kythe  and 
Guin  were  to  be  bridesmaids.  Arthur  Gervase  was 
to  be  best  man. 

Riding  over  to  the  Manor  Farm,  Arthur  saw  an- 
other horseman  waving  to  him,  and  rode  on  past  the 
turning  to  meet  his  brother  Hugh.  Hugh  kept  well 
out  of  the  way  of  The  Domain  family,  but  had  al- 
ways been  on  good  terms  with  his  brother,  and  saw 
him  from  time  to  time.  Arthur  had  never  accepted  his 
grandfather's  root-and-branch  condemnation  of  poor, 
good-natured  Hugh. 

"I  say,"  Hugh  began,  without  further  formality, 
"have  you  seen  this?" 

"This"  was  a  crumpled  and  rather  elderly  news- 
paper, an  Australian  one.  An  unobtrusive  paragraph 
in  a  corner  announced  the  death,  by  blood-poisoning, 
of  Teresa  Maria  Santa  Gervase,  daughter  of  the  late 
Hugh  Gervase,  of  Mallabara,  and  Lower  Domain,  and 
Mrs.  Stenton,  his  wife. 

"I  expected  most  likely  you  hadn't  seen  it,"  ex- 
plained Hugh,  "and  thought  you'd  like  to  know.  On 
account  of  the  children,  you  know." 


122     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Arthur  nodded,  and  read  it  again,  noting  the  date, 
place,  and  the  name  and  date  of  the  paper.  It  was 
several  months  old. 

"Poor  Teresa!"  he  said.  "On  the  whole,  she  is 
lucky  to  have  died  in  her  bed  and  not  to  have  been 
murdered " 

"Or  hanged,"  put  in  Hugh.  "I  can't  pretend  much 
sentiment,  can  you?  On  the  whole,  she  was  a  less 
creditable  member  of  the  family  than  even  my  noble 
self,  and  this  is  a  comparatively  respectable  end." 

"Unless  'blood-poisoning'  is  a  euphemism  for  drink," 
suggested  Arthur.  "I  wonder  where  her  husband  is?" 

"Happy  release  for  him,  I  should  think,"  commented 
Hugh.  "That  is  to  say,  if  there  is  such  a  person." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  look  at  it,  man!  It  says  who  she  is  the 
daughter  of;  but  no  mention  of  her  being  anyone's 
wife " 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Arthur,  shocked. 

"Well,  the  children  being  called  Gervase  is  rather 
a  give-away,  isn't  it?  Gervases  don't  lie  so  thick  on 

the  ground I've  often  thought  of  it.  Do  you 

mean  to  tell  me  Gran  hasn't?" 

"She  has  never  said  anything  of  the  sort  to  me." 

"If  there  was  a  husband,  he  can  claim  them,  by 
law." 

"It's  a  bad  business,"  said  Arthur.  "Poor  little 
devils.  They  are  nice  kids,  too.  Thanks,  old  man, 
for  telling  me.  Shall  I  ride  back  with  you?" 

Lady  Katherine  was  still  rather  invalidish.  She 
had  shut  herself  up  a  good  deal  and  seen  but  little  of 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  123 

her  friends.  Mrs.  Desmond  had  been  once  to  sit  with 
her.  The  subject  of  Mr.  Desmond's  return  was  only 
touched  upon,  not  discussed. 

"I  hope  he  is  well,"  said  Lady  Katherine,  courte- 
ously. 

"Thank  you,  yes.  He  is  very  well,  and  looks  it," 
answered  Mrs.  Desmond. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  have  him  back."  And  that 
was  all.  No  attempt  to  probe,  or  to  force  confidence. 

Old  Mrs.  Leigh  was  Lady  Katherine's  most  frequent 
visitor;  and  she  had  an  idea  that  Lady  Katherine  had 
something  on  her  mind.  She  mentioned  it  to  Tom 
(who  mentioned  it  to  Major  Gervase,  who  thought  it 
highly  probable),  but  she  had  no  notion  what  its  nature 
might  be.  Arthur  had  a  shrewd  surmise  that  it  con- 
cerned Teresa;  but  knew  nothing  with  certainty. 

He  tried  to  rid  himself  of  the  worrying  thoughts 
raised  by  the  news  of  his  sister's  death,  and  the  un- 
pleasant idea  Hugh  had  presented  to  him.  If  Teresa 
had  never  been  married,  these  children  were  illegiti- 
mate; and  that  would  cut  Lance  out  of  any  chance  of 
succession  to  The  Domain.  Arthur  had  sometimes 
thought  that  if  he  had  no  sons,  there  might  be  some 
way  of  passing  things  on  to  Lance,  who  would  love  the 
old  place,  and  value  it;  but  such  a  thing  as  this  would 
put  it  out  of  the  question. 

It  would  be  just  what  one  might  expect  of  Teresa; 
but  what  about' Lady  Katherine?  Had  she  known? 
Arthur  remembered,  several  times,  to  have  made  allu- 
sions to  the  unknown  father  of  Lance  and  Guin,  and 
never  had  the  old  lady  given  the  faintest  hint  that  she 


i24    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

considered  the  position  equivocal.  Unfortunate,  of 
course;  and  disgraceful,  in  one  way;  but  not  this  par- 
ticular kind  of  disgrace. 

It  made  Arthur  hot  all  over.  Damn  Teresa — yes, 
even  though  she  were  dead.  What  a  curse  she  had 
always  been! 

Slowly  he  went  to  his  grandmother's  room,  and 
braced  himself  for  a  trying  interview.  She  took  the 
news  very  quietly,  her  face  a  little  in  shadow,  sitting 
in  her  wide,  padded  chair  with  her  feet  on  a  stool  and 
an  Indian  shawl  over  her  knees.  The  fire  burnt  clear, 
and  the  room  had  a  spacious  comfort  and  dignity  that 
made  the  very  thought  of  wild-cat  Teresa  seem  im- 
probable and  fantastic. 

"Poor  soul,"  said  the  old  lady,  at  last.  "May  she 
rest  in  peace.  What  a  mis-spent  life!" 

"Peace  and  Teresa  hadn't  much  in  common,"  ob- 
served Arthur.  "It  will  be  odd  if  they  meet  now. 
Gran,  there  are  a  lot  of  things  we  ought  to  discuss — 
that  I  want  to  thrash  out  with  you.  About  the 
children" — she  shifted  uncomfortably  in  her  chair,  and 
pushed  the  stool  away — "you  insist  on  going  through 
the  estate  business  with  me,  because  of — eventualities; 
and  this  is  really  much  more  important.  I  hate  to 
think  of  the  time  when  you  won't  be  here;  you  have 
£een  father  and  mother  and  everything  in  the  world 
to  me;  and  I  want  to  be  able  to  pass  on  a  little  of  it 
to  them." 

Her  face  was  shielded  by  her  hand,  on  which  she 
leant,  her  elbow  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  near- 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  125 

est  to  him.  He  went  on,  not  knowing  what  to  make 
of  her  silence. 

"They  are  only  thirteen  and  fourteen  now.  Until 
they  are  twenty-one,  their  father  has  legal  rights  over 
them;  and  if  he  should  turn  up  any  day — it  would  be 
rather  rough  on  them.  You  see,"  getting  more  and 
more  nervous,  "I  don't  really  know  anything  about 
him;  and  anyone  might  pretend  to  be  their  father, 
armed  with  a  copy  of  the  marriage-certificate!" 

She  moved  again,  impatiently.  Then,  with  a  quick 
sigh,  leant  forward  towards  the  fire. 

"He  is  not  likely  to  trouble  us." 

Her  voice  was  husky. 

"Do  you  know  who  he  is?" 

He  asked  the  question  sharply. 

After  another  pause,  Lady  Katherine  gathered  her- 
self up.  Looking  him  full  in  the  face,  she  said  firmly, 

"I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  she  was  ever  married." 

Arthur  was  silent.  Presently  she  turned  back  to 
the  fire. 

"I  think,"  said  Arthur,  after  a  time,  "that  you  ought 
to  tell  me  all  you  know.  It  will  be  my  responsibility, 
and  I  ought  to  know  where  I  stand." 

He  spoke  with  more  determination  than  he  had  ever 
used  to  Lady  Katherine  before. 

"I  don't  know  anything  to  tell  you,"  she  responded; 
and  there  was  almost  a  wail  in  her  voice. 

"Then,"  he  said,  with  insistence,  "you  had  better 
tell  me  what  you  think,  and  why  you  think  it." 

"She  was  mad,  in — that  way,"  said  Lady  Katherine, 


126    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

hoarsely.  "She  could  not  keep  her  hands  off  any  man. 
At  least,  that  is  the  only  excuse  I  can  make  for  her. 
And  she  was  fascinating,  beyond  question." 

She  lost  herself  in  her  musings,  gazing  into  the  fire 
with  an  expression  of  misery  that  struck  Arthur  into 
dismay. 

"Who  was  the  man?"  he  asked,  when  the  silence 
had  lasted  a  long  time. 

"I  don't  know.  There  was  a  man — some  low  man, 
connected  with  the  market-gardening — that  she  had 
got  hold  of.  She  used  to  slip  out  and  meet  him  at 
night.  Your  grandfather  got  to  know  of  it  and  was 
terribly  angry.  That  was  when  we  made  up  our  minds 
to  send  her  back  to  Mrs.  Hugh — to  Mrs.  Stenton,  as 
she  had  then  become — your  mother." 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  Lady  Katherine  were  wander- 
ing in  her  memory. 

"I  think  it  was  too  late,  even  then.  She  sent  us 
an  impertinent  letter,  mocking  us  and  saying  our  pre- 
caution had  been  useless;  when  Lance  was  born  she 
sent  us  a  copy  of  the  birth  certificate,  and  there  was 
no  entry  of  the  father's  name.  In  the  space  for  it 
she  put  a  great  question-mark " 

Arthur  nearly  laughed.  Teresa  was  really  impos- 
sible. Poor  Gran! 

"When  the  children  arrived  here,"  went  on  Lady 
Katherine,  "there  was  a  letter  that  the  Chinaman 
brought.  It  had  quite  a  large  sum  of  money,  to  defray 
their  clothing  expenses  and  the  man's  wages;  and  a 
note  from  Teresa — just  her  off-hand  style — asking  me 
to  forgive  her  and  give  her  children  a  chance.  They 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  127 

are  worth  saving,'  she  said;  'not  a  bit  like  me,  and  they 
may  make  you  some  worthy  return  for  your  goodness.' 
That  was  all." 

Lady  Katherine  repeated  the  words  slowly  and  care- 
fully. The  appeal  was  rather  touching,  coming  from 
Teresa;  but  Arthur  could  not  understand,  even  with 
that  and  all  that  had  preceded  it,  Lady  Katherine  re- 
ceiving and  bringing  up  as  Gervases,  in  the  old  home, 
the  illegitimate  children  of  some  unknown  man  or  men. 
It  was  truly  amazing. 

No  such  disgrace  had  ever  touched  their  name  be- 
fore. Gervases  had  been  wild,  but  their  women  had 
been  proudly  virtuous.  Such  an  one  as  Teresa  well 
deserved  to  be  cast  out;  what  influence  had  been  at 
work  to  earn  her  this  sort  of  forgiveness?  Lady  Kath- 
erine, untouched  by  modernity  in  any  of  its  forms, 
unmoved  by  arguments  for  the  freedom  of  women,  leni- 
ency for  their  errors,  compassion  for  the  unwanted 
baby — she  had  always  been  adamant  on  these  points — 
had  introduced  to  the  County  and  adopted  at  The 
Domain,  as  Gervases,  these  illegitimate  waifs,  these 
children  of  utter  shame,  offspring  not  only  of  an  illicit 
union,  but  of  a  betrayal  of  class  as  well  as  chastity — 
Teresa  Gervase  and  a  market-gardener's  man! 

The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  inexplicable  it 
seemed. 

"Why  did  you  have  them  here?"  he  asked,  at  last, 
more  roughly  than  he  knew.  "People  take  them  for 
— people  think  them "  he  broke  off. 

Poor  little  kids!     Jolly  little  beggars,  too. 

"I  tried  to  make  some  atonement,"  said  Lady  Kath- 


128    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

erine,  falteringly,  indistinctly.  Then,  to  his  horror, 
broke  into  bitter  weeping — the  first  tears  he  had  ever 
seen  her  shed. 

Of  all  things  for  her  to  say,  this  was  surely  the 
strangest.  Of  all  things  for  her  to  do,  to  weep  was 
the  most  unexpected.  There  was  a  mystery  he  could 
not  fathom;  and  meanwhile  he  could  not  press  his 
inquisition.  He  rang  for  the  maid  and  left  them,  feel- 
ing guilty  and  brutal  and  hopelessly  perplexed. 

The  children  themselves  took  the  news  philosophi- 
cally, and  without  a  particle  of  emotion.  Gervase  was 
a  trifle  concerned  that  they  should  not  make  even  a 
pretence  at  sorrow. 

"Then  she  won't  come  and  take  us  away  now,"  was 
what  Guin  said,  and  there  it  began  and  ended. 

This  unconcerned  attitude  again  troubled  their 
friends  the  Desmonds,  to  whom  it  seemed  almost  in- 
decent. They  ventured  on  a  polite  attempt  at  con- 
dolence, but  found  it  waved  aside  as  unnecessary. 

"And  perhaps  she  isn't  really,"  confided  Lance  to 
Hubert.  "Once  or  twice,  there  was  people  who  had 
a  death  put  in  the  papers  that  wasn't  true.  One  was 
a  friend  of  mother's,  and  she  was  found  out  because 
there  wasn't  a  funeral.  Someone  tried  to  find  where 
the  funeral  was,  and  that  busted  it." 

This  shed  new  and  unusual  lights  on  ordinary  hap- 
penings that  made  Hubert  and  the  other  Desmonds 
exchange  many  queer  reflections. 

Lance  did  not  air  this  theory  to  his  uncle,  to  whom 
such  an  idea  would  have  been  startling  indeed. 

Meanwhile,  gossip  had  been  busy.    She  is  a  hard- 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  129 

working  jade  and  gets  through  more  in  a  half-hour 
than  honest  folk  get  through  in  a  year.  Every  imagin- 
able fable  was  in  circulation  concerning  Mr.  Des- 
mond's return,  and  his  disgraceful  absence.  Disgrace- 
ful it  now  was,  beyond  any  doubt.  Elopement,  for- 
gery, bigamy,  and  acute  mania,  were  freely  canvassed. 
The  favoured  theory  of  one  hearth  was  indignantly 
scouted  on  another;  and  people  who  had  no  earthly 
means  of  knowing  anything  at  all  about  it  contradicted 
each  other's  versions  with  heat,  and  gave  the  "real 
facts"  with  vehemence  and  positiveness.  Details  were 
forthcoming,  and  significant  corroborations;  and  au- 
thorities were  quoted  whose  only  disqualification  was 
that  they  had  not  laid  their  very  emphatic  statements 
before  the  public  long  ago. 

A  lady  was  by  far  and  away  the  favourite  theory. 
The  lady  was,  beyond  doubt,  that  heroine  of  an  an- 
cient and  unsavoury  divorce  case,  who  had  left  her 
guilty  lover  in  the  lurch  at  the  eleventh  hour  and  re- 
fused to  commit  herself  to  the  marriage  for  which  she 
had  wrecked  her  reputation.  She  had  quietly  removed 
herself  from  the  glare  of  publicity,  which  she  had  so 
assiduously  courted,  and  had  lived  in  a  hitherto  unex- 
plained obscurity.  But  it  was  all  revealed  now.  She 
had  been  in  the  Himalayas  with  Mr.  Desmond,  prac- 
tising a  form  of  magic  worship  which  had  ended  in  her 
death  and  his  freedom. 

It  was  a  mere  trifle  that  the  dates  in  no  case  tallied. 
That  deterred  no  narrator.  Everything  else  was  so 
clear. 

Then  there  was  that  bank  failure.    The  man  respon- 


130    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

sible,  the  absconding  director,  had  never  been  found. 
If  he  had  been,  there  would  have  been  revelations  of 
the  utmost  piquancy,  and  Mr.  Desmond  would  have 
been  involved.  He  fled,  fearing  that  the  other  man 
might  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  if  caught.  He  had 
netted  thousands — thousands;  literally  thousands. 
That  was  how  he  was  able  to  live,  all  those  years.  The 
other  man  had  died,  and,  the  fear  of  exposure  removed, 
Mr.  Desmond  was  free  to  come  home. 

The  bank  had  not  failed  until  eighteen  months  after 
Mr.  Desmond's  disappearance;  but  who  cared  for  a 
trifle  like  that! 

There  was  also  "that  dreadful  scandal — do  you 
remember?"  when  a  number  of  men  well-known  in 
society  had  to  make  themselves  scarce,  to  escape  crim- 
inal proceedings.  Mr.  Desmond  was  one  of  those. 
He  had  the  audacity  to  come  back  now,  because  he 

had  no  doubt  heard  that  Lord had  come  back  last 

year,  and  had  not  been  interfered  with.  Did  you  not 
know?  Oh,  yes;  I  saw  him  in  the  Burlington  Arcade 
the  other  day,  looking  just  the  same.  You  could  not 
mistake  him.  And,  if  he  comes  back  and  no  notice 
is  taken,  why  not  Mr.  Desmond?  You  see,  if  they 
arrest  him,  he  will  say  things  about  the  others. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  this  kind  of  thing;  and 
there  were  also  sly  hints  that  Mrs.  Desmond  had  al- 
ways been  "queer,"  and  no  kind  of  a  wife  for  a  high- 
spirited  man  like  Mr.  Desmond.  He  couldn't  stand 
it,  you  know,  and  simply  cut  the  painter.  I  really 
don't  know  whether  I  blame  him! 

Then  came  the  death  of  old  J.  B.  Marx,  the  South 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  131 

African  millionaire,  who  died  in  his  luxurious  home  at 
Batten,  alone  and  unloved  and  helpless  with  arthritis. 
A  quarter  of  a  column,  in  big  print,  in  the  morning 
papers,  told  of  his  death,  his  life,  his  ill-health,  and 
his  wealth.  A  brief  paragraph  beneath,  in  small  type, 
recalled  the  bereavement  he  had  sustained  in  the  loss 
of  his  only  son,  who  was  employed  in  his  father's  busi- 
ness. When  in  possession  of  a  very  large  sum  of 
money,  this  young  man  had  disappeared;  and  as  he  was 
not  remarkable  for  sobriety — or,  as  the  paper  euphe- 
mistically put  it,  was  of  a  sporting  disposition — it  was 
presumed  that  he  was  decoyed,  robbed  and  made 
away  with.  His  destination  that  afternoon,  after 
drawing  the  money,  had  been,  so  far  as  could 
be  determined,  a  place  on  the  line  a  little  beyond 
Fairlands. 

Some  spark,  flashing  from  the  acute  brain  of  one 
of  these  searchers  after  truth,  set  light  to  a  train  that 
connected  up  these  odd  fragments  of  reminiscence  with 
the  mystery  of  Mr.  Desmond's  disappearance  and  the 
body  that  was  exhumed  near  Farmer  Johnstone's 
manure  heaps.  Regardless  of  grammar  no  less  than 
logic,  they  cried,  "that's  him."  And  from  thenceforth 
the  new  tale  took  the  limelight,  shouldering  its  blatant 
way  through  the  other  theories  and  taking  up  a  prom- 
inent position  in  the  foreground.  Being  the  most  lurid 
of  all,  it  was  naturally  the  most  popular.  Bigamy  was 
all  very  well;  and  forgery  was  exciting  in  its  way;  and 
elopements  are  always  fascinating.  But  these  do  not 
entail  the  desperate  consequences  of  murder.  And  of 
murder,  cold-blooded,  calculating  murder,  Mr.  Des- 


132     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

mond  was  forthwith  judged  guilty.  The  money  of 
which  he  robbed  his  murdered  victim  was,  of  course, 
to  pay  gambling  debts;  although  some  people  preferred 
to  have  it  hush-money. 

Christmas  might  have  been  a  difficult  time  for  Mr. 
Desmond  had  the  usual  festivities  been  on  hand.  The 
season,  however,  was  overshadowed  for  the  family  by 
the  sudden  death  of  Mrs.  Harry  Desmond,  from  in- 
fluenza. Harry  Desmond  was  utterly  broken  down, 
his  son  and  daughters  abroad,  his  wife's  people  engaged 
with  another  serious  illness.  Mr.  Desmond,  as  of  old, 
with  great  capability  and  that  enjoyment  of  a  job  not 
his  own  which  had  always  characterised  him,  took  com- 
plete charge;  and  his  feeling  and  tact  were  a  great  com- 
fort to  poor,  stricken  Harry,  who  felt  his  resentment 
melting  away  with  each  fresh  manifestation  of  his 
brother's  sympathy  and  helpfulness. 

Mr.  Desmond  wrote  to  his  nephew  and  nieces  full 
accounts,  and  took  all  the  necessary  mournful  cor- 
respondence off  his  afflicted  brother's  hands.  Some  of 
his  correspondents  did  not  even  know  of  his  return, 
and  their  stupefaction  on  reading  the  signature  was 
indescribable.  The  letters  were  so  matter-of-fact  and 
so  taking  everything  for  granted  that  the  recipients  did 
not  doubt  all  had  been  satisfactorily  explained  to  the 
Desmond  family;  although  their  own  curiosity  re- 
mained unallayed. 

The  household,  thus  plunged  into  mourning,  kept 
itself  rather  to  itself  and  did  not  notice  the  steady 
withdrawal  of  acquaintance.  Harry  Desmond  was 
persuaded  to  stay  at  The  Meadows  until  after  the 


THE  DAYS  THAT  CAME  133 

New  Year,  when  he  was  to  go  to  his  daughter  in  St. 
Petersburg,  she  being  at  the  moment  engaged  in  hav- 
ing a  new  baby. 

Fairlands,  which  had  thought  well  of  Mr.  Harry 
Desmond  and  made  him  free  of  its  cliques  and  its 
amenities,  deeply  resented  this  lapse  on  his  part.  It 
was  unpardonable  that  he  should  go  to  stay  with  those 
people.  No  sooner  poor  Mrs.  Desmond  dead  than  off 
he  rushes  to  that  disreputable  brother!  It  is  enough 
to  make  the  poor  woman  turn  in  her  grave. 

Virtuously,  Fairlands  took  up  the  case  against  Mr. 
Desmond,  and  the  murder  theory  was  adopted  unani- 
mously. They  were  not  sure  that  Mrs.  Desmond  too 
had  not  been  privy  to  it,  which  was  why  she  had  always 
been  so  "queer."  Of  course  she  must  have  known 
something;  probably  helped  him  to  get  away! 

Lord  Gotto  of  Gozo  was  very  hot  about  it.  He 
could  not  think  what  The  Law  was  for.  What  were 
the  police  thinking  of?  Why  was  not  a  warrant  taken 
out?  With  his  disreputable  red  face  and  his  bawling 
voice,  he  read  the  Riot  Act  violently  to  Mr.  Talbot, 
who  was  a  Justice  and  who,  most  unexpectedly,  did 
know  a  little  law  himself.  Justices  all  too  frequently 
do  not. 

"A  warrant  cannot  be  signed  unless  there  is  some 
evidence  sworn  to  support  an  accusation,  or  a  sus- 
picion," objected  Mr.  Talbot.  "You  can't  simply  con- 
nect a  man  and  a'murder  and  have  him  arrested,  unless 
you  can  show  that  there  is  evidence  to  support  the 
charge." 

"His  disappearance,"  bawled  Lord  Gotto,  "and  his 


134    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

being  able  to  live  all  those  years  without  touching  his 
income " 

"Can  you  prove  he  ever  was  anywhere  where  he 
could  have  seen  or  known  young  Marx  and  his  errand 
that  day?  Can  you  prove  that  body  was  young  Marx's 
body?  Come  now,  Lord  Gotto.  If  you  were  a  Justice, 
would  you  shell  out  warrants  on  vague  gossip  like  that? 
Heaven  help  the  public  if  we  did!" 

Lord  Gotto  was  in  no  way  appeased.  He  denounced 
Mr.  Talbot's  "kid-glove"  methods,  and  continued  to 
call  for  Mr.  Desmond's  head  on  a  charger. 

Aunt  Hermione's  wedding  was  not  postponed,  but 
was  cut  down  to  the  quietest  possible  affair.  It  took 
place  from  The  Meadows,  and  Mr.  Desmond  again 
earned  golden  opinions.  His  sister  was  generously, 
nay,  lavishly  provided  for,  and  David  made  the  most 
fatherly  brother  possible.  The  Rector's  heart  warmed 
once  more  towards  his  old  friend;  and  Major  Gervase, 
who  came  to  support  the  bridegroom,  was  obliged  to 
own  that  Desmond  was  an  uncommonly  pleasant  chap. 

Harry  Desmond  left  for  Russia,  and  promised  to 
stay  at  The  Domain  on  his  return.  Mr.  Raymond  and 
Aunt  Hermione  went  to  Sicily  for  their  honeymoon; 
things  at  Lower  Domain  went  on  as  usual.  Every  day 
as  it  went  by  made  Mr.  Desmond's  disappearance  more 
of  a  fantasia;  yet  every  day  increased  his  family's 
subtle  distrust  of  him,  and  the  feeling  of  shame  that 
bowed  down  their  young  heads. 

And  before  Easter-tide  another  staggering  surprise 
was  sprung  upon  them,  that  seemed  worse  than  any- 
thing that  had  yet  been. 


CHAPTER  XI 

,< 

THE  MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM 

FEBRUARY  was  muggy  and  breathless,  and  Mrs. 
Desmond's  robust  and  unchanging  health  seemed  to 
suffer.  Heavy-eyed  and  languid,  with  dull  skin  and 
bad  nights,  she  was  palpably  suffering  and  made  them 
all  feel  anxious.  Dr.  Willett  was  called  in. 

The  verdict  was  startling. 

"Unusual,  at  her  age,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Desmond, 
"but  not  at  all  unnatural,  under  the  circumstances.  It 
is  very  risky.  You  ought  to  have  been  more  care- 
ful." " 

Dr.  Willett  was  angry,  and  spoke  abruptly.  The 
man  had  got  ahead  of  the  physician  for  the  moment. 

Mr.  Desmond  looked  stricken. 

"She  has  always  been  wonderfully  strong  and 
healthy,"  he  said,  beseechingly. 

"She  will  want  it  all,"  retorted  Dr.  Willett,  curtly. 

Gervase,  hurrying  down  the  lane  that  night  on  his 
way  home  from  the  Manor  Farm,  heard  the  click  of 
the  garden  door  with  a  smile  of  pleasant  anticipation. 
Kythe  was  waiting  for  him;  but  it  was  a  Kythe  so 
silent,  so  absent,  and  evasive,  as  to  make  him  ask 
what  was  the  matter. 

135 


136    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

After  a  few  moments  she  admitted  something  was 
the  matter. 

Then  she  held  away  from  him  and  he  found  she 
was  crying. 

It  was  a  passionate,  strangling  outburst,  of  which 
he  could  not  guess  the  cause.  It  was  "Mother,"  again; 
and  "I  hate  him;  oh,  I  hate  him.  I  wish  he  had  been 
dead  and  never  come  home." 

But  she  would  not  tell  him  what  the  trouble  was; 
and  he  kissed  and  comforted  her  and  sent  her  in,  think- 
ing her  to  be  the  victim  of  wounded  vanity  and  girlish 
sensitiveness. 

Next  day  he  knew. 

Lance  and  Guin  came  in  to  say  that  Mr.  Raymond 
was  in  the  hall,  enquiring  for  Gran;  and  Gervase  went 
out  to  speak  to  him.  Lady  Katherine  was  not  so  well, 
and  Mr.  Raymond  expressed  his  regret. 

"She  has  never  really  pulled  up,"  said  Gervase.  "It 
is  sad  to  see  her  now,  so  completely  and  so  suddenly 
an  invalid,  and  so  listless  in  mind  as  well  as  body. 
She  does  not  seem  to  care  for  anything  much.  How 
is  Mrs.  Raymond?" 

"Very  well,"  answered  the  Rector,  "so  far  as  her 
health  is  concerned,  but  dreadfully  worried  about  Mrs. 
Desmond.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  heard?" 

"I  have  heard  nothing,"  answered  Gervase,  looking 
grave. 

"There  is  another  child  on  the  way,"  said  the  Rector, 
bluntly.  "They  are  all  most  anxious  about  her." 

"It  is  a  ghastly  business,  altogether,"  he  asserted,  as 
he  took  his  leave.  "I  never  felt  so  inclined  to  murder 


MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM         137 

a  fellow-creature — and  my  own  intimate  friend,  too." 

Arthur  Gervase  nodded. 

"A  bad  business,"  he  murmured.  "A  bad  business. 
Poor  Mrs.  Desmond." 

He  was  genuinely  shocked.  It  seemed  horrible — 
an  outrage — he  felt,  like  Lance,  that  he  hated  Mr. 
Desmond. 

So  that  was  what  Kythe  was  crying  about  and  would 
not  tell  him!  No  wonder. 

Those  days  were  bad  days  for  the  young  Desmonds. 
On  top  of  the  almost  horror  and  fury  with  which  they 
envisaged  the  new  state  of  things,  their  father's  be- 
haviour was  the  last  straw.  With  that  strange  coarse- 
ness that  overlaid  his  breeding,  he  fondled  his  wife  in 
public,  fussed  over  her  ostentatiously,  and  called  gen- 
eral attention  to  her  condition.  He  discussed  matters 
that  made  them  tingle  with  shame,  and  went  into  de- 
tails that  had  never  before  reached  their  ears.  The 
red  spots  sprang  ever  afresh  to  Mrs.  Desmond's  cheeks, 
and  the  family  hated  being  in  the  same  room  with  their 
father  and  mother  together. 

"I  can't  think  how  mother  stands  it,"  cried  May 
to  Aunt  Hermione.  "It  is  simply  dreadful.  And 
it  is  getting  to  this,  that  he  is  estranging  us  all 
from  mother.  Even  Kythe  won't  stay  in  the  room, 
when  he  begins.  Was  he  always  like  that,  Aunt 
Hermie?" 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Hermione,  with  emphasis.  "Of 
course  he  was  not.  He  was  like  the  rest  of  us.  You 
could  not  imagine  his  saying  or  doing  an  indelicate 
thing " 


138    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"And  now  look  at  him!"  continued  May,  despair- 
ingly. 

The  gossip  and  scandal,  circulating  round  Mr.  Des- 
mond, could  not  fail  in  the  long  run  to  reach  the  chil- 
dren. Lennox  made  a  point  of  acquainting  himself 
with  all  that  was  said  or  surmised,  and  passed  most 
of  it  on  to  Luttrell,  who  took  it  lightly  enough  and 
told  some  of  it  to  May.  Lance  and  Guin,  precocious 
and  acute,  and  on  those  peculiar,  intimate  terms  with 
a  number  of  their  social  inferiors  which  always  results 
in  large  accumulations  of  undesirable  information,  gar- 
nered up  enough  to  have  made  even  the  Raymonds  open 
their  eyes.  Aunt  Hermione  heard  more  than  she  cared 
about  in  the  parish,  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in 
wondering  how  much  the  children  knew  and  what  they 
thought. 

Mr.  Raymond  came  in  to  lunch  one  day  with  a 
troubled  face. 

"That  poor  fellow  Johnstone,"  he  began,  as  he  un- 
folded his  table-napkin,  "it  really  almost  seems  as  if  his 
troubles  were  being  too  much  for  him.  I  don't  think 
his  mind  is  quite  clear " 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  asked  his  wife,  as  the  ex- 
planation of  the  above  tarried. 

"Oh!  Poor  Johnstone,  you  mean?  Yes.  He  is 
going  on  so  about  that  body  that  was  found.  Says 
that  as  Desmond  has  turned  up  and  it  can't  be  him, 
it  is  someone  Desmond  killed.  Declares  that  if  Farmer 
Johnstone  could  be  persuaded  to  have  the  place  turned 
up,  they  would  find  his  son's  body  too.  Pitiful,  isn't 
it?" 


MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM         139 

"Good  gracious,  Charlie!     Is  this  true?" 

"Farmer  Johnstone  threatens  to  have  him  'put  away* 
in  an  asylum  if  he  goes  on  like  that.  Poor  fellow." 

"I  often  wonder  whose  body  that  was,"  mused  Aunt 
Hermione.  "It  really  is  a  mystery,  now  David  has 
come  back." 

"Johnstone  has  it  all  pat,"  answered  the  Rector. 
"It  is  the  body  of  the  man  his  son  got  into  mischief 
with;  and  he  has  some  wild  story  besides  of  the  lady 
at  The  Domain.  He  says  he  knew  she  was  in  it  some- 
how." 

"Lady  Katherine!"  exclaimed  his  wife.  "What 
cheek!" 

"He  is  not  responsible,  poor  creature,"  commented 
the  Rector.  "Brooding  on  his  troubles  has  upset  his 
balance." 

"There  are  enough  stories  about  David  already," 
sighed  Aunt  Hermione,  "without  Johnstone  adding  to 
them.  What  was  David  supposed  to  have  gained,  by 
murdering  these  two  young  men?  I  suppose  that  is 
the  idea,  isn't  it?" 

The  Rector  nodded. 

"/  don't  know,"  he  said,  lightly.  "It  is  a  mad  yarn, 
anyhow.  Don't  let  us  worry  ourselves  any  more  about 
it." 

Johnstone,  however,  was  not  disposed  to  allow  him- 
self to  be  so  summarily  cleared  away.  He  hung  about 
in  his  spare  time,  looking  for  someone  with  whom  to 
ventilate  his  grievance.  Not  a  frequenter  of  The  Blue- 
Nosed  Man,  he  preferred  Tenterley's,  or  a  chance  lis- 
tener in  the  streets.  Luttrell,  Lennox,  and  Gervase, 


140    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

besides  the  Rector  and  Mr.  Turton,  were  made  the 
recipients  of  his  rambling  confidence.  There  was  lit- 
tle point  in  the  story.  What  he  wanted  "cleared  up" 
was,  the  identity  of  the  body.  He  "named  no  names," 
but  wanted  it  "cleared  up."  There  were  "them  as  were 
responsible"  who  ought  to  be  made  to  speak. 

Lennox  was  in  a  mighty  fume.  Demanding  hotly 
of  the  Rector  and  of  Gervase  that  "something  should 
be  done  to  stop  it,"  he  could  not  suggest  what  it  was 
that  should  be  done,  nor  what  it  was  that  should  be 
stopped.  Johnstone  "named  no  names,"  and  his  story 
and  his  suggestions  remained  wrapt  in  mystery.  Only, 
it  was  clearly  understood,  whatever  of  suspicion  there 
was  of  whatever  crime  had  been  committed,  clun^; 
round  Mr.  Desmond. 

It  was  useless  to  fume  and  fuss.  No  one  was  pre- 
pared to  go  the  length  of  shutting  poor  old  Johnstone 
up  as  insane,  and  short  of  that  one  could  not  stop  him. 
His  brother  the  farmer  gave  him  what  he  described  as 
a  proper  raking;  but  without  effect. 

Gervase  and  Tom  Leigh  had  several  long  discus- 
sions over  the  situation.  There  was,  no  doubt,  much 
that  wanted  elucidation.  The  disappearance  of  ras- 
cally young  Johnstone,  in  itself,  was  not  in  any  way 
mysterious.  It  was  all  in  accordance  with  known 
facts.  He  worked  with  his  father,  had  robbed  his 
uncle,  had  been  told  to  make  himself  scarce  or  he  would 
be  sent  to  prison;  and  had  gone  off  without  keeping 
his  promise  to  his  father  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  All 
that  was  only  what  one  expected  from  the  young  scamp, 
who  drank  and  gambled  from  the  time  he  left  school. 


MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM         141 

Never  having  shown  much  consideration  for  his  father's 
feelings,  it  surprised  no  one,  and  did  not  seem  to  call 
for  explanation,  that  he  did  not  keep  his  promise  to 
come,  and  had  never  written.  Farmer  Johnstone  gave 
him  his  steerage  passage  and  a  five-pound  note,  and 
told  him  to  go  to  Hell  out  of  England.  He  had  gone. 

There  was  nothing  mysterious  about  all  this.  Not 
like  Mr.  Desmond's  disappearance.  What  was  mys- 
terious was  the  finding  of  a  body  near  Farmer  John- 
stone's  manure  heaps,  that  was  not  the  body  of  Mr. 
Desmond.  A  crime  had  manifestly  been  committed; 
and  while  some  were  prepared  to  suspect  Mr.  Desmond, 
others  shook  their  heads  and  said  that  there  were  most 
likely  more  reasons  than  were  apparent  for  young 
Johnstone's  cruel  behaviour  to  his  father.  If  he  had 

any  hand  in  it !  The  rest  was  left  significantly 

unsaid. 

Coming  to  poor  Amos  Johnstone's  ears,  this  inter- 
pretation of  the  affair  nearly  sent  him  crazy  in  good 
earnest. 

Arthur  Gervase  was  now  in  a  fair  way  to  be  in  love 
with  the  immature  but  beautiful  Kythe  Desmond. 
Some  men  are  violently  attracted  by  youth  and  im- 
maturity; and  although  he  was  rather  ashamed  of  him- 
self, he  felt  that  her  all  too  evident  girlish  fancy  for 
him  was  flattering  and  attractive.  She  plainly  thought 
him  wonderful  and  fascinating,  and  her  eloquent  and 
most  lovely  eyes  sent  thrills  through  him  when  he 
met  their  shy  but  worshipping  gaze.  She  had  a  way 
of  looking  to  him  for  comfort  in  her  deepest  moods  of 
depression  that  had  established  a  sort  of  secret  be- 


142    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

tween  them;  and  he  saw  her,  at  the  garden  door  in  the 
lane,  at  night,  more  often  than  he  cared  to  remember. 

An  utter  and  complete  cad,  he  would  be  called,  he 
knew,  by  men.  If  Desmond  knew — he  grew  hot,  at 
the  thought  of  Desmond  having  the  right  to  lecture 
him  or  pull  him  up. 

And  yet  he  could  not  keep  from  making  the  lane 
his  way  home,  and  stopping  to  kiss  and  comfort  the 
pretty  girl  shyly  waiting  there.  She  was  self-possessed 
enough,  and  could  bandy  words  with  anyone,  on  most 
occasions;  but  shy  with  him. 

She  was  only  fifteen.  Old  for  her  age,  true;  ac- 
customed to  the  society  of  grown-up  people,  shrewd, 
clear-witted  to  the  point  of  uncanniness,  and  sensitive 
as  few  children  are  to  the  motives  and  griefs  of  older 
people.  Her  life  with  the  other  children  was  only  a 
pretence  life.  She  was  dearly  loved  by  them,  but  was 
not  of  them.  Her  real  life,  her  real  self,  as  Hero 
complained,  was  something  inside,  something  you  could 
not  get  at. 

It  was  beyond  question — and  Gervase  had  enough 
insight  to  see  and  understand  this — that  a  love  affair 
with  him,  however  school-girlish  and  fleeting,  would 
not  be  an  easy  or  a  desirable  thing  for  her.  She  would 
cherish  it  passionately  and  romantically,  even  if  ab- 
surdly; and  it  would  leave  its  mark  in  spite  of  her 
youth. 

Well;  he  wanted  to  settle  down.  He  wanted  Lady 
Katherine  to  see  his  wife — and  perhaps  his  children — 
before  she  passed  to  the  bourne  whence  none  return. 


MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM         143 

Would  she  welcome  this  bride,  such  a  bride?  Daugh- 
ter of  that  man — bearing  his  name  .  .  .  Could  Gran 
welcome  that?  And  less  than  half  his  age — a  mere 
child? 

He  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  she  would 
be  considered  marriageable.  The  doubt  shed  on  his 
nephew's  birth  made  him  think  seriously  of  marriage 
now.  It  meant  the  succession  to  The  Domain;  and 
though  the  lands  left  them  were  no  longer  wide,  they 
were  old  and  very,  very  dear.  The  Domain  and  the 
Homestead,  and  the  Manor  Farm,  a  beautiful,  compact 
stretch  of  country,  had  never  been  held  by  any  save 
a  Gervase  from  that  time  remote  when  the  Conqueror 
parcelled  out  his  fair  prize  among  his  hard-fighting 
barons.  Arthur  Gervase  wanted  to  keep  it  for  the 
Gervases,  and  not  let  it  go  to  strangers. 

The  estate  had  been  disentailed  and  had  been  dis- 
posed of  since  then  by  will,  or  by  the  inheritance  of 
the  eldest  son.  His  grandfather  had  got  it  on  the 
death  intestate  of  a  childless  uncle,  and  had  left  it  to 
his  widow  for  her  life,  and  then  to  Arthur.  Hugh  had 
been  cut  out  altogether. 

Gervase  wondered  whether  he  could  bear  to  be  Des- 
mond's son-in-law;  and  tried  to  shake  off  his  doubts 
and  dreams  by  going  off  for  a  day's  fishing  with  Tom 
Leigh.  He  knew  that  Leigh  hoped  he  would  marry 
his  niece,  but  she  was  too  racketty  for  Arthur.  His 
taste  in  women  was  for  something  more  restful. 

On  his  way  home  that  night  he  found  Kythe  wander- 
ing in  the  lane. 


144    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"This  is  very  imprudent,"  he  scolded.  "Aren't  you 
supposed  to  be  in  bed?  Suppose  some  drunken  brute 
came  along ?" 

"Suppose  I  saw  a  dragon  or  a  sea-serpent!"  scoffed 
Kythe.  "Why  should  a  drunken  brute  come  along; 
and  why  shouldn't  I  hear  him  coming  and  get  to  the 
door  first?" 

He  laughed. 

"What  brought  you  out?"  he  asked. 

"To  see  if  you  would  come,"  she  answered,  with  soft 
insinuation.  "I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"Yes?    What  for?" 

His  hand  was  on  her  arm,  his  head  bending  to  hers. 

"Only  to  see  you,"  she  whispered.  "Something  nice 
to  think  of  before  I  go  to  bed.  Things  are  so  hor- 
rible  " 

She  broke  off. 

"How  is  your  mother?" 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.     Then  broke  out, 

"O,  I  wish  I  could  go  away — get  away  from  it  all 
— from  kirn,  from  Mother,  from  everyone.  Isn't  there 
anyone  who  would  take  me  away?  I  wish  Uncle 
Harry  would.  He's  got  no  one,  and  I  could  look  after 
him.  Don't  you  think  that  would  be  a  good  thing, 
Major  Gervase?  I  do  want  to  get  away.  I  can't 
bear  it." 

"And  what  should  I  do?"  asked  Gervase,  low.  "No 
little  sweetheart  to  say  good-night  to  me  in  the  lane? 
Wouldn't  you  mind,  never  seeing  me  again?  Wouldn't 
you  mind?  Kythe,  little  Kythe?" 

What  a  blackguard  you  are,  something  inside  him 


145 

kept  saying;  and  something  else  also  said,  You  have 
done  it  now,  and  you  must  stick  to  it. 

He  felt  almost  a  horror  at  himself;  yet  beyond 
doubt  she  was  sweet  and  seductive  in  spite  of  her 
childishness;  and  beyond  doubt  also  she  knew  and  un- 
derstood the  situation. 

"It  is  our  secret,  little  Kythe,  our  very  own,"  he 
found  himself  saying,  his  face  pressed  to  the  soft, 
springy  hair.  "For  nobody  else  but  us.  Keep  it  with 
me,  won't  you?  And,  stay;  don't  go  off  and  leave 
me.  Stay  until  we  can  tell  people." 

Her  kisses  were  warm  enough,  in  all  conscience, 
though  she  was  girlishly  shy  and  full  of  little  reticences 
and  reserves  and  refusals.  He  let  her  go  reluctantly; 
she  was  very  sweet  and  soft  in  her  shyness. 

As  he  left  the  garden  door  behind  him,  a  man  came 
to  meet  him.  How  much  of  the  interview  he  had  seen 
or  overheard,  Gervase  did  not  know,  but  hot  anger  at 
his  own  folly  and  imprudence  and  this  man's  intrusion, 
seized  him. 

The  man  accosted  him,  however,  most  respectfully. 

"Might  I  have  a  word  with  you,  Master  Arthur,  sir, 
arxking  your  pardon  for  stopping  of  you?" 

It  was  Johnstone. 

Slightly  mollified,  Gervase  let  the  old  man  walk  be- 
side him,  and  pour  out  his  tale.  Briefly,  it  came  to 
this,  that  as  the  lady  had  come  back,  couldn't  Major 
Gervase  do  something  for  him?  The  lady  would  know, 
and  p'raps  she  would  tell  him  something.  She  knew, 
for  certain  sure. 

"Master  Arthur,  sir,  arxk  her  to  tell  me.    A  pore 


146    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

ole  man,  I  am,  and  I've  a-waited  all  these  years  and 
never  told  a  sowl  what  I  could  a-told.  Held  my  tongue, 
I  have,  out  of  respec'  for  the  fam'ly  and  never  let  no 
word  slip.  But  I  want  to  know,  I  do,  afore  I  go  to 
my  rest.  It's  not  so  fur  off  now,  Master  Arthur,  and 
I  couldn't  rest  easy  unless  I  knowd  what  it  wuz  as 
become  of  my  lad.  I'm  a  pore  ole  man,  I  am,  with 
nothing  but  my  rest  to  look  forrard  to.  It  ooldn't  be 
fair,  Master  Arthur,  for  to  spile  my  rest  for  me.  And 
people  saying  bitter  black  things  about  him;  I  got 
to  clear  him  afore  I  goes." 

This  passionate  and  bewildering  harangue  had  no 
meaning  for  Gervase. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Johnstone,  but  I  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  of.  What  lady  has  come  that 
can  tell  you  about  your  lad?  I  don't  know  of  any." 

"Miss  Teresa,  sir.  I  see  her  come,  this  very  night 
as  ever  is.  Drove  up  in  a  motor,  she  did;  and  she's 
there  now.  You  will  find  her,  sir,  when  you  get 
in." 

No  news  Johnstone  could  have  given  would  have 
been  less  welcome;  and  Gervase  did  not  believe  it. 
He  thought  the  old  man's  mind  was  indeed  astray; 
yet  the  very  idea  of  Teresa's  arrival,  or  possible  ar- 
rival, sent  him  hurrying  to  the  relief  of  Lady  Kath- 
erine.  He  let  himself  in  by  the  side  door,  hardly  heed- 
ing Johnstone's  piteous  wail  "you'll  arxk  her  to  tell  me, 
Master  Arthur,  sir,  you  will,  won't  you?"  and  raced 
up  to  the  house. 

"Mrs.  Gervase,  sir,"  remarked  Mellish,  as  Gervase 


MUTTERINGS  OF  THE  STORM         147 

wondered  how  to  frame  an  inquiry;  "she  arrived  at  a 
quarter  to  eight.  You  will  find  her  in  the  lib'ry,  sir; 
she  wouldn't  have  the  drawing-room  set  out." 

"How  is  Lady  Katherine?"  Gervase  asked,  in  utter, 
breathless  dismay. 

"As  well  as  could  be  expected,  sir,"  answered  Mellish, 
discreetly.  "She  did  not  have  a  c'lapse,  nor  yet  a 
crissis,  sir." 

"I  had  better  see  her,  if  she  is  still  awake,"  re- 
marked Gervase  and  went  upstairs  without  delay. 

Lady  Katherine  was  in  bed,  but  wakeful.  Her  ex- 
pression, resigned  and  beaten,  made  his  heart  ache. 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  she  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Arthur.  "Did  she  say  what  had 
brought  her?" 

"Her  children,"  said  Lady  Katherine,  with  an  into- 
nation of  indescribable  scorn.  Then,  in  a  wail  almost 
as  piteous  as  old  Johnstone's,  she  cried, 

"O,  Arthur,  she  has  come  to  make  trouble.  Dread- 
ful, dreadful  trouble.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought.  I 
wish  she  had  been  dead  in  good  earnest,  whether 
it  is  wicked  or  not.  Why  did  she,  oh;  why  did 
she?" 

"Do  you  know  why  she  came,  then?"  he  asked, 
stupefied. 

"I  suppose  so.  Crazy;  crazy.  Wickedly,  per- 
versely crazy;  or  crazily  wicked.  I  do  not  know 
which." 

She  turned  her  head  restlessly  on  the  pillow,  mur- 
muring, 


148    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Thank  God  your  grandfather  did  not  live  to  see 
this." 

There  was  a  mystery  and  a  trouble  beyond  his 
comprehension;  and  he  kissed  her  and  left  her,  in 
deep  concern. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FAMILY  AMENITIES 

WITH  the  greatest  possible  distaste,  Gervase  went 
in  search  of  his  sister.  She  was  in  possession  of  the 
library,  a  stately  and  beautiful  apartment  used  on 
ordinary  occasions  as  a  sitting-room.  Sprawling  full 
length  on  the  sofa,  which  she  had  pulled,  regardless 
of  the  arrangement  of  the  room,  to  the  front  of  a  fire 
that  she  had  piled  up  to  scorching  point,  one  leg  dan- 
gling over  the  arm,  a  little  Spanish  cigar  between  her 
lips,  and  an  indescribable  litter  of  smoking  material, 
comic  papers,  and  odds  and  ends  around  her,  she  looked 
over  one  shoulder  and  watched  him  without  moving, 
as  he  came  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"Here  you  are  at  last,"  she  said,  in  her  purring  con- 
tralto, reaching  a  careless  hand  to  him  over  the  back 
of  the  sofa.  "Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?  What  an 
unwelcoming,  and  unbecoming  frown?" 

She  laughed  low,  and  settled  herself  more  snugly 
into  the  sofa.  It  gave  her  pleasant  sensations  to  see 
how  disturbing  her  advent  was  to  them  all. 

And,  as  when  a  boy,  Arthur  quailed  before  her 
resolute  malice. 

"Have  you  seen  the  children?"  he  asked,  dropping 
her  uncordial  hand  after  the  briefest  pressure. 

149 


150    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Oh,  yes.  The  devoted  parent  is  my  role,  at  present. 
I  went  up  to  see  them  at  once;  and  very  well  they 
look,  though  I  do  not  think  you  have  trained  them 
nicely  in  manners.  They  did  not  even  pretend  to  be 
glad  to  see  me." 

"You  won't  find  anyone  here  pretending  that,"  rose 
to  Arthur's  lips,  but  he  refrained  from  speech.  No 
matter  what  one  said,  it  only  supplied  Teresa  with 
food  for  her  sneers  and  barbs  for  her  arrows. 

She  asked  him  a  few  questions,  suggesting  malicious 
answers  to  them,  and  commented  on  Lady  Katherine 
being  so  far  from  robust  in  health. 

"It  was  time  I  came  home,"  she  yawned,  "to  take 
the  worry  of  the  children  off  her  shoulders." 

Arthur  was  discreetly  silent. 

Teresa  helped  herself,  when  the  Tantalus  and 
glasses  came,  to  a  much  larger  tot  of  whiskey  than 
her  brother  allowed  himself,  with  less  water.  It  was 
tossed  off  as  if  it  were  milk,  and  followed  by  another, 
without  any  apparent  effect. 

She  looked  her  age,  and  at  times  wore  an  expres- 
sion that  was  almost  haggard.  Worn  to  the  bone, 
lined,  and  as  thin  as  a  woman  well  could  be,  she  was 
yet  graceful  and  still  attractive  in  a  feline  way.  Her 
magnificent  eyes  and  wide  laughing  mouth  with  the 
pretty  teeth  and  the  obvious  dimples,  would  carry  her 
on  to  the  end. 

"What  about  Hughie?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"Hugh  did  badly  for  himself,"  said  Arthur  absently. 
"Poor  old  Hugh." 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  151 

"I  must  go  over  and  see  him,"  she  said,  with  her 
wicked,  enraging  laugh. 

It  would  be  just  like  her,  thought  Arthur,  to  take 
up  with  the  Rattler  crowd — painted,  loud-voiced  wo- 
men who  did  not  mind  loose  jests,  and  rowdy,  hard- 
drinking  men  totally  untroubled  by  breeding — just  the 
kind  of  society  for  Teresa.  The  Rattlers  were  not 
immoral  in  the  accepted  sense,  only  low-lived,  and  fishy 
in  money  matters.  She  was  capable  of  inviting  them 
to  The  Domain! 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said  Arthur.  "Where 
have  they  put  you?" 

"In  the  Grey  Passage,"  answered  Teresa,  with  a 
wicked  grin.  "Too  far  from  the  children,  I'm  afraid. 
I  shall  have  to  get  moved  to-morrow;  I  want  to  keep 
a  close  eye  on  them." 

Arthur  slammed  the  door  in  the  temper  he  could 
never  control  when  Teresa  was  about. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  bath-room,  he  found  his 
room  in  possession  of  two  flannel-clad  and  dressing- 
gowned  young  people,  waiting,  perched  on  the  end  rail 
of  the  bed. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked. 

"Waiting  for  you,"  answered  Guin.  "We  wanted 
to  see  you  before  you  went  to  bed." 

Something  in  the  child's  words  and  manner  stirred 
a  queer  memory  in  Gervase's  brain.  Where  had  he 
heard  her  say  that  before?  No;  of  course,  it  was  not 
her.  It  was  something  like  what  Kythe  had  said  to 
him,  only  a  short  time  ago.  It  was  like  the  way  Kythe 


152    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

had  said  it,  too;  and  there  was  a  troubled  expression, 
altogether  new  to  Gum's  face,  that  was  reminiscent  of 
Kythe. 

He  puzzled  over  it  for  a  few  moments,  giving  it 
more  attention  than  its  importance  seemed  to  war- 
rant. 

He  sat  on  the  bed  beside  the  rail,  and  Guin  squatted 
close  to  him,  hugging  his  arm.  Lance,  astride  of  the 
thick  wooden  rail,  opened  fire. 

"Have  you  seen  Mother?" 

"Yes,  old  man.    Just  for  a  few  minutes." 

"What  has  she  come  for,  Uncle  Arthur?  Has  she 
come  to  take  us?" 

"Take  you,  dear  old  man?    Take  you  where?" 

"Take  us — with  her.    Away,"  hoarsely. 

"I  won't  go;  I  won't  go,"  exclaimed  Guin,  passion- 
ately, her  face  smothered  against  his  shoulder.  "I 
won't,  I  won't.  I'll  wish  she  had  been  really  dead,  if 
she  is  going  to  take  us  back." 

The  vibrating  passion  of  it,  the  unrestrained,  almost 
despairing  resentment,  again  recalled  Kythe.  Ger- 
vase  felt  his  brain  in  a  whirl.  He  did  not  know  much 
about  girls  of  that  age,  and  had  not  dreamt  of  these 
tragic  intensities  to  their  natures. 

"Of  course  she  won't  take  you  away.  Why  should 
she?"  he  soothed. 

"Because  she'll  know  we'd  hate  it,"  answered  Lance, 
gloomily.  "That's  reason  enough,  for  her." 

The  concentrated  bitterness  of  their  tone,  in  alluding 
to  their  mother,  made  a  very  painful  impression  on 
Gervase.  He  knew  Lance  was  right.  It  would  be 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  153 

reason  enough,  for  Teresa,  if  she  took  it  into  her  head; 
and  she  would  never  count  the  cost,  nor  consider  the 
consequences. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  he  advised.  "I  ex- 
pect your  mother  has  come  because  she  is  sick  of 
wandering  about,  and  wants  to  be  comfortable  and 
settled.  If  she  had  wanted  you,  she  would  have  had 
you  sent;  she  would  hardly  have  come  herself." 

He  talked  to  reassure  them,  but  did  not  convince 
himself. 

"Is  the  door  properly  shut?"  asked  Guin,  with  real 
and  dreadful  anxiety,  lamentable  to  behold.  "Cos 
she  listens;  and  if  she  knew  we  minded " 

Lance  slipped  down  softly  and  tried  the  door. 

Gervase  was  desperately  shocked.  These  children 
had  never  before  shown  any  trace  of  their  association 
with  evil-doers;  and  he  had  often  wondered  that  they 
had  come  so  clean  out  of  Teresa's  hands  and  haunts. 
Evidently  there  were  things  undreamed  of  in  their 
lives,  things  they  had  sloughed  and  left  behind  them 
with  the  happy  adaptability  of  childhood — ugly  things 
that  the  sight  of  their  mother  revived. 

"She  listens."  How  horrible  to  hear  that  child  say 
it,  with  full  knowledge  of  its  infamy,  of  her  own 
mother!  Gervase  felt  hot  anger  rising  against  his 
sister;  yet  knew  he  would  never  have  the  courage  to 
challenge  her  and  tell  her  of  her  degradation. 

He  recollected  the  extremely  calm  way  in  which 
the  children  had  received  the  news  of  their  mother's 
announced  death.  At  the  time  Gervase  had  had  an 
uncomfortable  impression  that  they  were  more  relieved 


154    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

than  distressed;  and  Teresa's  return  left  him  in  no 
doubt  of  their  complete  absence  of  filial  sentiment.  It 
was,  perhaps,  he  consoled  himself,  better  that  way  than 
that  they  should  be  under  her  unwholesome  influence. 

He  tucked  the  two  uneasy  young  people  into  their 
beds,  in  the  two  small  rooms  where  he  and  Hugh  had 
slept;  and  went  to  his  own  bed,  full  of  foreboding. 
Falling  asleep  with  his  mind  on  the  peculiar  likeness  to 
Kythe  displayed  by  Guin  under  the  influence  of  emo- 
tion, he  dreamed  that  he  clasped  Kythe  in  his  arms  on 
their  marriage  and  found  her  to  be  Guin. 

Next  day  was  Sunday.  Gervase  nearly  always  put 
in  an  appearance  at  Church — to  encourage  old  Ray- 
mond, he  used  to  say,  and  keep  him  up  to  the  mark. 
Lady  Katherine  was  no  longer  able  to  sit  out  the  serv- 
ice, and  only  came  for  the  Sacrament. 

In  the  hall,  waiting  for  the  children  to  be  ready, 
Gervase  looked  up  at  a  sound  on  the  big  stair.  It 
was  Teresa,  also  palpably  ready  for  church. 

He  said  no  word.  Lance  and  he  walked  in  front, 
Teresa  and  Guin  a  few  paces  behind.  Teresa  carried 
an  ostentatious  prayer-book,  and  a  larger  hymn-book 
with  tunes.  The  family  seats  were  at  the  top  of  the 
chancel,  facing  north  and  protected  by  jutting  carved 
wings  of  woodwork.  Short  pews  cut  them  off  from 
the  aisle.  They  had  their  own  entry. 

Gervase  walked  in,  holding  the  door  of  the  carven 
enclosure  open  for  his  sister,  with  a  sound  like  rushing 
wind  in  his  ears.  He  knew  the  sensation  their  en- 
trance would  create,  and  wished  he  were  at  the  North 
Pole. 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  155 

Across  the  aisle,  lower  down  the  church,  sat  the 
Desmonds.  The  Domain  enclosure  was  in  full  view 
from  where  they  sat.  Kythe  and  Guin  exchanged  a 
greeting  that  they  fondly  imagined  to  be  hidden  from 
others.  It  expressed  surprise  on  the  one  hand,  and 
dismay  on  the  other. 

There  was,  of  course,  the  greatest  excitement.  The 
village  wondered  what  had  brought  "that  flighty 
madam"  back  again,  and  how  Lady  Katherine  took  it. 
The  Raymonds,  the  Leighs,  and  the  Desmonds  saw 
the  distressing  side,  and  felt  deepest  sympathy  for 
Lady  Katherine,  Arthur  and  "those  unfortunate  chil- 
dren." No  one  had  any  thought  of  sinister  secrets  or 
mysteries. 

Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  church,  in  one  of  the 
short  pews  beyond  the  north  aisle,  sat  old  Johnstone. 
Bowed,  grizzled,  and  withered,  he  had  not  lost  the 
keen  faculties  of  sight  and  hearing;  and  was  besides, 
watching  for  the  family  from  The  Domain.  To  him 
alone  did  the  situation  seem  sinister;  and  the  sight  of 
Teresa  worked  him  up  to  danger  pitch. 

He  would  give  Master  Arthur  time,  he  kept  saying 
to  himself,  with  a  glitter  of  fanaticism  in  his  old  eyes. 
He  would  give  him  time.  "I've  bided  so  long,  I  can 
bide  a  bit  longer  yet."  But  if  nothing  came  from 
Master  Arthur  in  reasonable  time,  then  he  would  see 
to  things  himself.  Lady  Katherine  had  always  been  a 
lady  to  see  things  done  straight.  To  Lady  Katherine 
he  would  go,  if  Master  Arthur  failed  him. 

With  swift  and  dexterous  purpose,  Teresa  got  her- 
self out  of  the  church  before  the  neighbours  had  time 


156    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

to  disperse.  Gervase  found  her,  bowing  with  malicious 
recognition  to  the  Leighs,  and  prepared  to  make  every- 
one feel  uncomfortable  by  being  forced  either  to  greet 
her  or  snub  her  publicly.  He  himself  was  greeted 
warmly  by  the  Desmonds  and  by  Mrs.  Raymond.  His 
sister  so  manoeuvred  her  movements  as  to  make  an 
introduction  unavoidable. 

Mrs.  Desmond  smiled  kindly  and  held  out  a  not 
unfriendly  hand.  This  was  the  girl  who  had  asked 
Lady  Katherine  to  forgive  her  and  to  give  her  chil- 
dren a  chance.  Now  that  she  had  come  back  to  the 
safe  haven  she  had  despised  in  her  stormy  youth,  the 
older  woman  resolved  to  say  no  word  and  to  do  no 
deed  that  would  make  the  path  of  peace  and  order  hard 
for  those  unruly  feet. 

So  she  smiled  and  shook  hands,  and  held  the  hand 
an  extra  moment  while  she  asked  Major  Gervase  how 
Lady  Katherine  was. 

Teresa  flashed  a  quick,  malicious  glance  over  them 
from  her  mocking  eyes.  She  knew  as  well  as  they 
did  what  they  were  all  thinking. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Desmond?  You  are  Mr. 
Desmond,  aren't  you?" 

Mr.  Desmond  had  stepped  back  when  his  wife  shook 
hands  with  this  woman,  as  if  not  liking  to  see  the 
contact.  Gervase  noticed  that,  and  felt  furious.  But 
he  did  not  catch  the  surprised  look  on  Mrs.  Desmond's 
face  at  Teresa's  cool  greeting  of  her  husband. 

Gervase  thought  it  "jolly  bad  taste,"  all  the  same. 
Desmond  might  have  made  himself  notorious,  but  it 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  157 

was  "a  bit  thick"  to  rub  it  in  like  that,  and  before  his 
wife,  too. 

Mr.  Desmond  responded,  not  stiffly,  yet  with  little 
empressement ;  and  busied  himself  with  getting  his 
wife  home,  his  show  of  concern  for  her  health  setting 
everyone's  teeth  on  edge.  Teresa  walked  behind  them 
with  her  children,  Gervase  going  down  the  road  through 
the  village  with  Tom  Leigh  part  of  the  way  to  the 
Manor  Farm.  He  found  a  boy  to  whom  he  entrusted 
a  scribbled  message  for  Hugh. 

Teresa  did  not  go,  as  was  usual,  to  the  front  en- 
trance of  The  Domain.  She  turned  aside  and  fol- 
lowed the  Desmonds  up  the  lane,  and  opened  the  small 
door  in  the  wall  with  a  key  she  produced  from  some- 
where. An  expression,  purely  wicked,  lit  her  face  as 
she  turned  it,  from  practised  habit,  with  the  peculiar 
twist  the  lock  required.  Lance  noticed  it  and  wondered 
what  it  meant.  He  and  Guin  passed  in,  their  mother 
standing  purposefully  outside  the  threshold,  watching 
the  party  from  The  Meadows  up  the  lane. 

When  The  Meadows  garden  door  was  reached,  Mr. 
Desmond  gave  a  sharp  and  furtive  look  back,  and  saw 
her  watching. 

That  afternoon  Teresa  began  her  old  ways. 

"I  am  going  over  to  see  Hugh,"  she  announced, 
after  lunch.  "Children,  get  ready  to  start  at  three. 
We  will  go  and  dig  Uncle  Hugh  out,  and  make  him 
give  an  account  of  himself." 

"We  don't  go  to  Uncle  Hugh's,"  objected  Lance. 
"Gran  doesn't  like  it." 


158    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Gran  won't  mind  your  going  anywhere,  with  your 
mother  to  look  after  you,"  grinned  Teresa. 

When  they  had  left  the  room,  Gervase  protested. 

"If  you  can't  keep  out  of  bad  company  yourself," 
he  said,  working  himself  up  so  as  to  keep  hold  of  his 
courage,  "you  might  at  least  leave  the  kids  out  of  it. 
It  will  be  shameful  if  you  mix  them  up  with  that  low- 
lived Rattler  lot." 

"Compared  with  their  own  mother,  dear  Arthur, 
the  Rattler  lot  are  harmless,"  said  Teresa,  suavely. 

"You  needn't  go  out  of  your  way  to  make  bad 
worse,"  argued  Arthur,  ineffectively. 

"Well,  if  I  am  not  to  go  to  Hugh's  because  they 
are  too  disreputable,  shall  we  go  to  the  Leighs'?  Or 
to  the  Desmonds'?" 

She  eyed  him  tormentingly. 

"No?  Too  respectable?  A  poor  look-out  for  me, 
isn't  it?  One  brother's  friends  too  bad,  and  the  other's 
too  good — what  am  I  to  do  for  company?  Any  sug- 
gestions? Should  I  confine  myself  to  associating  solely 
with  the  servants?" 

"If  you  come  unexpectedly,  without  finding  out  if 
you  are  wanted "  he  began. 

"How  can  I  find  out  if  I  am  wanted  at  the  Rat- 
tlers', unless  I  go  there?  For  all  you  know,  they  may 
want  me  passionately,  when  they  see  me!  Come, 
Arthur,  I'm  here;  and  I'm  going  to  stay.  You  can't 
turn  me  out  without  a  scandal — a  loud  scandal.  I'll 
take  care  it's  a  loud  one.  So  you  had  better 
make  the  best  of  me,  and  find  me  some  amusing  com- 
pany." 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  159 

"Why  was  your  death  announced  in  the  Sydney 
Weekly?"  asked  Arthur. 

"Ah!  Why?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't 
tumbled?"  She  laughed  unreservedly,  her  mouth  wide, 
her  eyes  dancing.  "A  very  good  reason,  and  quite 
successful.  What  a  dreadful  lot  of  Aunt  Jemimas  you 
are  here!  I  feel  as  if  I  had  got  into  one  of  Mrs.  Trim- 
mer's moral  stories  for  young  people." 

"No  story  would  be  moral  with  you  in  it!" 

"No.  But  it  might  be  amusing,  or  exciting.  Oh, 
I  can  see  I  am  going  to  have  very  good  fun  here.  Is 
that  Mrs.  Desmond  going  to  have  a  baby?" 

Gervase  thought  this  coarse  and  offensive.  Mrs. 
Desmond  and  Aunt  Hermione  and  Mrs.  Leigh  and 
Lady  Katherine  never  talked  like  that.  He  hated  wo- 
men to  bring  those  sorts  of  things  to  men's  notice. 

"I  haven't  asked,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"Haven't  you  used  your  eyes  either?  She  looks  like 
it.  Disgusting,  at  her  age.  She  ought  to  have  fin- 
ished with  that  sort  of  thing.  How  long  has  he  been 
back?  They  didn't  lose  much  time,  did  they?" 

Gervase  made  no  comment.  He  was  inexpressibly 
annoyed. 

"She  can't  have  much  spirit,  or  decency,  to  take 
him  back  like  that  after  the  way  he  treated  her," 
sneered  Teresa.  But  still  he  took  no  notice.  The 
vulgar,  vixenish  outlook,  which  was  all  that  could  be 
expected  of  Teresa,  offended  him  beyond  speech  in  con- 
nection with  Mrs.  Desmond. 

Finding  he  would  not  discuss  the  Desmonds,  she 
harked  back  to  her  starting  point. 


160    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Well?  Where  is  it  to  be?  The  Rattlers,  or  the 
Manor  Farm?" 

"Oh,  please  yourself,"  he  retorted,  and  left  the  room. 

Teresa  laughed  her  vicious,  musical  laugh,  and  went 
into  the  garden. 

She  had  lost  no  time,  since  her  return.  The  porter 
at  Fairlands  station,  the  driver  of  the  hired  car,  the 
under-housemaid  who  attended  to  her  room,  one  of 
the  garden  boys,  her  own  children — she  had  pumped 
them  and  elicited  scraps  of  local  information,  and 
heard  one  or  two  of  the  things  she  wanted  to  know. 
Out  in  the  garden,  she  got  hold  of  old  Adams. 

"Your  sons  working  here  still,  Adams?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Missie,"  said  the  old  man.  "And  my  grand- 
son." 

"My  grandmother  is  fortunate,"  she  laughed.  "And 
which  of  you  have  the  keys  of  the  Old  Tower?" 

"I  have,  Missie.  Would  you  like  to  go  in,  any 
time?  It's  a  long  time  since  anyone  used  it,  not  since 
Master  Hugh  left.  A  long  time,  a  long  time." 

"Is  there  anything  to  see  if  I  do  go  in?"  she  asked, 
lightly;  for  indeed  there  was  nothing,  except  a  winding 
stair  down  into  a  fairly  dry  cellar,  and  another  up — 
only  five  or  six  steps  up — to  a  room  with  a  window 
looking  on  the  garden  and  the  place  where  another, 
looking  on  the  lane,  had  been  walled  up.  This  room 
Hugh  had  used  for  a  carpenter's  shop,  with  a  bench 
and  a  turning  lathe.  It  was  still  just  as  he  had  left  it. 
In  the  cellar,  Adams  stowed  wood  and  coal  for  the 
greenhouses,  and  grew  mushrooms. 

Leaving  the  old  man,  she  strolled  to  the  Towei  and 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  161 

opened  the  door  beside  it  into  the  lane.  Walking  up 
it  with  cat-like  tread,  she  listened  and  listened,  out- 
side the  garden  wall  of  The  Meadows,  to  the  voices 
and  laughter  she  heard  within  it.  Mr.  Desmond  was 
in  great  form,  and  Mrs.  Lennox  was  "playing  up." 

A  smile,  altogether  evil,  sat  on  Teresa's  face  as  she 
listened.  Then  she  made  up  her  mind. 

Calling  to  Lance  and  Guin,  she  collected  them  in 
The  Domain  garden,  and  suggested  a  walk. 

"Take  me  for  a  walk  somewhere.  Where?  Oh, 
anywhere.  Anywhere  you  usually  go." 

And  they  went  up  the  lane  together. 

Lance's  call  brought  Hero  and  Kythe  to  the  garden 
door  for  a  few  moments.  Teresa  spoke  to  them  pleas- 
antly; and  Hero,  conscious  of  no  difficulties,  called 
back  into  the  garden, 

"It  is  Lance  and  Guin  and  their  mother." 

Something  made  them  hesitate,  look  round  at  Mrs. 
Gervase,  and  look  back  over  their  shoulders.  Then 
Kythe,  in  her  self-possessed  way,  said, 

"Are  you  off  for  a  walk?  We  must  go  now,  Mother 
wants  us.  Good-bye." 

The  door  closed.  Teresa  was  perfectly  certain  some 
sign  had  been  made  forbidding  the  girls  to  ask  her  in. 
She  hummed  a  little  bravoura  run  and  trill,  to  herself, 
during  the  walk,  and  answered  the  children  so  absently 
that  they  left  off  trying  to  be  polite  to  her,  and  sheered 
off  by  themselves,  talking  in  low  tones.  Presently 
they  found  she  was  walking  so  quickly  as  to  be  difficult 
to  keep  up  with. 

They  skirted  The  Domain  in  a  wide  circuit  and 


1 62    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

came  back  into  the  Manor  Farm  Road  that  ran  out  of 
the  village  past  the  front  entrance  to  The  Domain, 
by  taking  a  narrow  path  through  the  wood  that  had 
got  to  be  a  right  of  way.  At  the  great  gate  of  The 
Domain,  was  Gervase,  obviously  in  an  altercation  with 
a  shabby  old  man. 

"I  wun't  let  you  put  me  off  with  that,  Master  Arthur. 
It's  not  natural  I  shouldn't  want  fur  to  know.  I  got 
to  find  out  about  my  boy,  and  clear  him  of  the  things 
they  are  saying  of  him.  If  you  wuz  to  arxk  the  young 
lady,  now.  If  you  wuz  only  to  arxk  her.  She'd  not 
let  an  old  man  go  to  his  grave  without  knowing  a  thing 
like  that;  and  if  I  don't  get  it  from  you  or  her,  I 
warns  you  fair,  Master  Arthur,  I'll  go  to  Lady  Kath- 
erine,  I  will.  I'll  go  to  her  ladyship,  as  won't  see  me 
wronged  no  longer,  not  if  she  knows  about  it,  she 
won't." 

At  the  end  of  his  vehement  speech  he  found  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  "the  young  lady." 

"What's  the  excitement,  Arthur?"  she  asked,  with 
mischievous  curiosity.  "What  is  old  Whatsis-name  go- 
ing to  Gran  about?" 

"Johnstone's  my  name,"  said  the  old  man,  loudly, 
but  quaveringly.  "Johnstone.  Father  of  Willie  John- 
stone,  what  was  a  friend  of  your  gentleman  friend's." 

If  ever  Teresa  looked  daunted,  it  was  then. 

"And  I  was  saying  to  Master  Arthur  here,"  went 
on  old  Johnstone,  "that  I  wants  to  know  about  my 
boy.  I  wants  to  know  what  you  done  with  him,  that 
was  going  to  do  so  much  to  help  him,  after  all  the 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  163 

trouble.  What  you  done  with  my  Willie.  I  got  a 
right  to  know,  and  a  right  to  go  easy  to  my  grave  and 
to  get  my  rest  without  being  kept  out  of  knowing  what 
I  got  a  right  to  know " 

He  broke  off,  wandering  a  little. 

"Is  this  a  joker,  or  a  lunatic?"  asked  Teresa,  of 
her  brother,  with  careless  insolence. 

She  did  it  well,  but  Arthur  saw  she  was  disturbed. 
Lance  and  Guin  were  furious  at  her  insolent  tone  to 
old  Johnstone,  whom  they  regarded  with  favour  as 
one  well  thought  of  by  Tenterley  and  by  Brookes. 
Johnstone,  who  was  always  respectful  to  the  gentry, 
but  had  never  been  required  to  take  that  kind  of  in- 
solence, broke  out  afresh. 

"Ah!  You'd  like  fine  and  well  to  have  it  made 
out  a  lunacy.  You'd  like  the  old  man  who  knew  some- 
thing of  your  goings-on  to  be  a  lunatic.  You'd  like 
to  muzzle  him  in  a  'sylum,  you  would,  and  get  him 
out  of  the  way." 

Gervase  interrupted,  peremptorily. 

"We  can't  have  this  sort  of  thing  in  the  streets, 
Johnstone.  If  you  have  anything  definite  to  say- 
something  real  and  practical — come  to  the  house  to- 
morrow morning  and  we  will  hear  you  quietly.  Any 
time  between  nine  and  eleven.  Come  in,  Teresa." 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  he  asked,  angrily,  in  the 
library. 

"How  should  I'know?"  she  parried,  mockingly.  "If 
you  keep  tame  lunatics,  or  village  idiots,  I  can't  be 
expected  to  know  the  forms  their  folly  takes!" 


1 64    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Did  you  ever  know  Willie  Johnstone?" 

"I  shouldn't  remember  it,  if  I  had!  Why  should 
I?" 

"Why  is  he  so  certain  you  would?" 

"How  can  I  be  expected  to  account  for  his  mad- 
ness?" 

When  Gervase  went  to  say  good-night  to  Lady 
Katherine,  he  found  her  stronger,  and  more  collected 
than  he  had  seen  her  for  some  time. 

"How  is  she  behaving?"  asked  the  old  lady. 

"Just  as  one  would  expect,"  answered  Arthur,  with 
a  shrug  of  annoyance.  "Wanted  to  take  the  children 
to  Hugh's;  came  to  Church,  and  forced  me  to  intro- 
duce her  to  the  Desmonds.  Tried  to  be  funny  with 
Desmond " 

An  angry  red  flamed  on  Lady  Katherine's  cheeks. 

"It  is  an  outrageous  thing  of  her  to  have  done, 
to  come  back  here.  Nothing  can  come  of  it  but 
trouble.  I  will  not  see  her  or  speak  to  her,  Arthur. 
Do  not  let  her  come  near  me." 

"There  is  one  person  very  anxious  to  see  her,"  re- 
marked Arthur.  "I  think  you  ought  to  know  some- 
thing about  it,  Gran.  I  haven't  a  notion  if  there  is 
anything  in  it  or  not,  but  she  looked  so  caught,  it 
makes  me  suspicious.  Old  Johnstone — Amos  John- 
stone — has  got  it  into  his  head  that  she  can  tell  him 
something  about  his  son's  death.  He  says  she  was 
mixed  up  in  something — I  can't  make  head  or  tail 
of  it,  he  gets  so  excited.  He  has  gone  for  me  twice 
about  it,  and  threatens  to  see  you;  and  she  came  up 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  165 

while  he  was  talking  to  me,  and  he  almost  threatened 
her." 

There  was  unmistakeable  horror  on  Lady  Kath- 
erine's  face. 

"He  is  coming  here  to-morrow,  to  talk  it  out." 

"He  mustn't,  Arthur.  Don't  allow  it.  Can  I  trust 
you  to  see  to  it?  Oh,  how  helpless  I  am  here.  May 
God  forgive  her,  for  I  never  can." 

Terribly  alarmed,  Arthur  soothed  her  and  begged 
her  not  to  worry,  promising  to  deal  faithfully  with 
Amos  Johnstone.  When  he  bade  her  good-night  and 
hoped  she  would  sleep,  she  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"I  can't  sleep,  Arthur.  I  lie  awake  hours  and  hours. 
Listening  to  those  carts,  rumbling  along;  like  Doom. 
Like  your  grandfather  did.  Listening  and  listening, 
and  hearing  them  even  when  they  were  not  there ' 

Her  voice  tailed  off  into  a  whisper,  and  he  crept 
away  in  deep  concern  and  alarm.  There  must  be 
something  desperately  serious  in  old  Johnstone's  quest, 
and  half-veiled  threats. 

The  story  of  his  sister's  intrigue  with  a  market- 
garden  man  leapt  back  to  his  mind.  He  marvelled 
that  he  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  Was  it  Willie 
Johnstone?  And  if  so,  who  was  the  "gentleman 
friend"  of  whom  old  Amos  had  spoken?  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  he  were  on  the  verge  of  discovery  of 
some  sort;  it  might  well  be  a  crime. 

A  crime — of  wliich  his  grandfather  and  grandmother 
had  knowledge?  A  crime,  perhaps,  committed  by 
Teresa ?  The  thought  made  his  head  swim. 


1 66    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

He  could  easily  think  of  Teresa  as  murdering  her 
low-born  lover! 

Next  morning,  to  his  surprise,  Gervase  was  told 
that  Lady  Katherine  would  like  to  see  him  in  her 
morning-room.  He  found  her,  white-faced  but  reso- 
lute, and  less  feeble  than  he  could  have  believed  pos- 
sible. 

"I  am  not  going  to  give  way  any  longer,"  she  told 
him.  "I  have  been  more  sick  in  mind  than  in  body, 
Arthur,  and  no  effort  seemed  worth  while.  I  have  been 
a  coward.  But  I  must  take  control  of  things  now. 
Where  is  Teresa?" 

"In  the  study." 

She  made  him  give  her  his  arm  to  the  study  door, 
then  asked  him  to  go.  Teresa  was  full  length  on  the 
sofa  with  a  French  comic  paper  in  her  hand.  She 
got  up,  pretty  quickly  and  respectfully,  for  her. 

Lady  Katherine  seated  herself  in  a  big  chair,  Teresa 
clearing  a  space  for  her  to  pass.  Wherever  Teresa 
was,  an  accumulation  of  disorder  surrounded  her — pa- 
pers ill-folded,  books  bent  backwards,  handkerchiefs, 
and  other  personal  belongings,  and  a  litter  of  cigarettes 
and  matches,  both  new,  half-finished,  and  done  with. 
She  lit  another  cigarette,  sat  on  the  sofa  in  a  crouch- 
ing attitude,  and  waited. 

"I  have  thought  things  over,"  said  Lady  Katherine, 
in  a  hard,  unyielding  voice;  "and  I  will  not  have  you 
here.  It  is  an  intrusion  so  indecent  that  I  am  sur- 
prised even  you  should  attempt  it.  I  will  not  tolerate 
it." 

Teresa  turned  an  impudently  interested  face  to  the 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  167 

older  lady.     The  expression  seemed  to  say,  "And  what 
do  you  propose  to  do  to  prevent  it?" 

"You  will  leave  here,"  went  on  Lady  Katherine  ia- 
exorably,  "in  three  days.  I  will  give  orders  that  a 
car  be  ready  for  you  and  your  luggage;  and  I  will  take 
your  ticket  to  any  destination  that  you  desire  overseas. 
I  will  also  arrange  for  you  to  be  escorted  to  the  ship 
and  kept  in  sight  until  you  sail.  Do  you  understand?" 

"And  the  children?" 

"They  will  stay  here." 

"Not  unless  I  do." 

"They  will  stay  here." 

"Illegitimate  children  belong  by  law  to  their  mother," 
said  Teresa,  softly.  "And  these  are  not  English  chil- 
dren; they  are  Australian  citizens." 

There  was  a  threat  in  every  word. 

"If  you  claim  them,"  said  Lady  Katherine,  unflinch- 
ingly, "and  you  will  not  get  them  except  by  legal  pres- 
sure, for  no  one  here  will  help  you  to  take  them,  and 
I  will  put  all  on  their  guard — I  will  take  the  matter 
into  Court,  and  show  that  you  are  not  a  fit  person  to 
have  the  custody  of  children." 

Teresa  laughed. 

"That  would  suit  me  down  to  the  ground,"  she 
purred.  "Then  we  would  have  out  all  the  dirty  family 
linen  and  give  it  a  good  washing — at  last." 

"Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  how  you  rely  on 
that  threat,  and*  how  you  are  planning  to  trade  on 
it?"  asked  Lady  Katherine,  with  biting  scorn.  "I 
know  it  to  be  your  trump  card.  And  I  have  hidden 
so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  family  credit  and  for  the 


1 68    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

sake  of  my  sons  and  their  sons,  that  no  doubt  you 
felt  safe  in  holding  that  belief.  But  I  have  gone  as 
far  as  I  mean  to  go,  and  you  can  push  me  no  farther. 
I  will  not  be  a  party  to  your  wickedness  any  longer, 
nor  will  I  allow  you  to  have  the  control  of  the  chil- 
dren. We  will  have  it  out  now." 

"Why  should  you  take  so  much  evil  of  me  for 
granted?"  asked  Teresa,  her  handsome  eyes  assuming 
a  pathetic  intensity. 

"It  is  no  use,  Teresa.  Don't  try  pathos.  It  makes 
even  less  impression  on  me  than  threats.  I  know  why 
you  sent  me  your  children.  I  know  why  you  had  your 
death  put  in  the  paper.  I  know  why  you  came  back." 

"It  was  a  good  dodge,  wasn't  it?"  remarked  Teresa, 
with  a  wicked  laugh.  "It  did  the  trick — fish  rose  to 
the  fly,  instantaneously.  Come,  Gran;  you  are  a  bit 
of  a  sportsman,  don't  spoil  sport  for  others." 

"Sport!"  echoed  Lady  Katherine,  with  so  much  of 
bitterness,  the  younger  woman  mentally  described  her- 
self as  having  drawn  blood.  "You  vile  creature.  You 
degrade  everything  you  even  speak  of.  In  three  days 
—you  understand?  You  leave  this  house;  and  if 
you  want  money  to  go,  your  destination  must  be  over- 
seas." 

Lady  Katherine  left  the  room,  well  aware  that  by 
her  action  she  might  be  precipitating  a  crisis,  yet  feel- 
ing too  much  roused  to  observe  caution.  And  Teresa 
crouched,  staring  at  the  fire,  wondering  which  of  the 
various  lines  of  viciousness  open  to  her  she  should  em- 
bark on,  wondering  how  much  Johnstone  knew,  and 


FAMILY  AMENITIES  169 

how  she  could  escape  the  deportation  Lady  Katherine 
was  planning,  and  yet  secure  the  money  that  she  needed 
above  all  things. 

Whatever  she  did,  she  would  have  to  do  quickly; 
that  much  was  certain. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND 

LORD  GOTTO,  a  man  of  the  most  limited  perceptions, 
was  deeply  and  intimately  convinced  that  he  was 
gifted  beyond  his  fellows  with  the  quality  of  penetra- 
tion. He  could  see,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  asserting, 
as  far  into  a  brick  wall  as  most  people,  this  being  a 
class  of  saying  to  which  he  was  much  addicted.  "  'A 
nod  is  as  good  as  a  wink'  to  me,  any  day"  was  another 
favourite  (of  whose  real  significance  he  was  blissfully 
unconscious);  and  he  frequently  asserted  his  mathe- 
matical proficiency  in  the  number  of  beans  that  made 
five.  In  regard  to  the  brick  wall  proposition,  he  gen- 
erally followed  it  up  by  adding  oracularly,  "And  a 
bit  further  too." 

It  was  on  this  form  of  philosophy  that  he  fell  back 
for  angry  consolation  when  Mr.  Talbot  chipped  him 
about  warrants  for  people's  arrest;  but  if  Mr.  Talbot 
flattered  himself  that  that  ended  the  matter  he  never 
made  a  greater  mistake  in  his  life. 

"If  that  quibbling,  hair-splitting  lawyer  thinks  he 
is  going  to  be  able  to  come  the  old  soldier  over  me," 
shouted  Lord  Gotto  to  Lady  Gotto,  who  rocked  im- 
patiently in  her  chair  because  she  could  not  bear  any- 

170 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND    171 

one  to  talk  loudly  and  arrogantly  except  herself,  "he 
has  jolly  well  got  to  have  a  lesson.  I'm  not  the  kiuu 
of  fellow  to  be  barking  up  the  wrong  tree,  and  I'll  show 
him." 

And  he  proceeded  to  demonstrate  his  acuteness  by 
prosecuting  enquiries  in  the  Sherlock  Holmes  manner, 
finding  clues  and  unearthing  motives,  and  tracking  ac- 
cessories, and  shouting  his  deductions  aloud  across  the 
dinner  table  to  the  bored  and  often  rudely-snubbing 
Lady  Gotto,  who  had  no  patience  with  his  foolishness, 
nor  indeed  with  that  of  anybody  else  except  her  own 
and  the  people  who  flattered  her.  And  he  talked  in  the 
first-class  carriages  in  which  he  travelled  with  all  his 
personal  luggage  on  the  seats;  and  at  hotels  and  at 
his  club  and  on  the  golf-course;  until  Mr.  Talbot's 
friends  felt  seriously  uneasy  and  everybody  else  was 
bored  stiff. 

At  Tenterley's,  the  subject  of  my  lord's  obsession 
was  touched  on.  The  evening  gatherings  in  the  little 
shop  were  still  a  feature  of  the  village  life.  The  old 
police  constable  had  joined  the  great  majority,  and  a 
younger  but  very  chatty  officer  was  in  his  place.  The 
flippant  postman  had  died  a  hero's  death  in  South 
Africa,  and  the  coalman  had  found  a  better  job  in 
London;  but  their  successors  frequented  Tenterley's, 
and  hobnobbed  with  the  market-garden  carters,  and 
chatted  with  parson  and  school-master  and  organist  as 
of  old. 

Constable  Thomas,  large,  florid,  impressive,  spread 
himself  importantly  on  the  one  substantial  seat  that 
would  stand  a  constable's  normal  weight;  and  Turton, 


172    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

on  a  short,  hard  bench,  smoked  reflectively,  one  knee 
crossed  over  the  other  and  an  elbow  on  the  knee.  Ten- 
terley,  engaged  in  a  delicate  operation  on  a  carved  pic- 
ture frame,  sat  low  near  his  bench,  his  keen  eyes  half 
hidden  between  a  myriad  little  lines  and  puckers  that 
gave  a  quaint  character  of  cheeriness  to  his  honest, 
acute  old  face.  On  the  table,  one  leg  dangling,  sat  a 
young  carter,  breathing  a  beery  fragrance,  just  out 
from  feeding  his  horses  and  refreshing  his  own  inner 
man. 

Two  other  men  lounged  in  the  doorway.  One  was 
an  elderly  carter,  the  other  the  bird-seed  and  poultry- 
food  man  from  over  the  way.  In  a  far  corner,  dejected 
and  forlorn,  sat  Amos  Johnstone,  his  pipe  out,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  empty  fireplace  in  unhappy  reverie. 

"Well,  constable,  you  did  ought  to  know,"  laughed 
one  of  the  carters.  "They  got  you  prop'ly  tied  up  in 
the  coort,  they  did,  the  other  morning." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  the  constable's  expense,  in 
which  he  joined  good-naturedly. 

"There's  noon  but  makes  mistakes,  times,"  he  said. 
"I've  heerd  worse  nor  than  'un,  in  the  coorts." 

"Ah."     With  wise  interest  and  agreement. 

"Mr.  Talbot,  he  says  to  me,  I  had  to  pull  you  up, 
Thomas,  and  sharp,  too,  he  says.  It  wouldn't  a  looked 
well  if  I'd  a  passed  it  without  rebuke,  he  says.  But, 
he  says,  he  knows  what  a  job  like  mine  be,  and  he 
won't  hold  it  over  against  me,  he  says;  nice  and  fair, 
he  spoke.  He's  a  real  gentleman,  is  Mr.  Talbot,  and 
about  the  beet  justice  on  the  Bench  in  these  parts — 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND 

and  I  don't  know  that  there's  many  to  beat  him  else- 
where." 

"Ah,"  nodded  Tenterley,  in  agreement.  "A  very 
fine  gentleman,  is  Mr.  Talbot.  Very  different  kind 
from  that  oold  Gotto  that's  always  trying  to  make 
himself  soo  important." 

"Proper  meddling  old  'ooman,  that  old  Gotto,"  re- 
marked the  young  carter.  "What's  this  bee  he  has 
got  in  his  bonnet  about  Mr.  Desmond,  now?" 

Tenterley  lifted  his  head  sharply  and  crinkled  up 
his  eyelids;  the  constable  leaned  forward  and  looked 
interested. 

"What's  he  saying  about  Mr.  Desmond?"  asked  Tur- 
ton. 

"Says  that  a  warrant  ought  to  be  out  for  his  arrest, 
'cos  of  complicity  in  that  case  about  the  body  nigh 
to  Farmer  Johnstone's  sheds.  Always  on  to  Mr.  Tal- 
bot about  it,  he  is." 

"Now  who  did  you  hear  that  from,  Jim  Caston?" 

"From  gardener  at  Fairlands  Park.  They  do  send 
a  powerful  lot  of  stuff  to  market  from  there — a  heap 
more  than  from  The  Domain,  which  it's  a  dirty  shame, 
I  call  it,  seeing  as  how  they  could  afford  to  give  it 
away,  to  hospitals  and  the  like,  but  they  never  gives 
a  fardenworth  away.  Gardener,  he  was  telling  me. 
Shouts  it,  he  does,  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea,  for 
to  let  everybody  hear." 

"But  what  d<5es  he  think  Mr.  Desmond  had  to  do 
with  it?"  asked  Turton,  staring. 

"Says  it  is  plain  that  that  there  murder  was  what 


174    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

made  him  clear  off  all  them  years.  He  has  it,  old 
Gotto  has,  that  it  were  body  of  that  Mr.  Marx,  the 
son  of  the  millingnaire  that  died  not  so  long  ago.  His 
son — the  millingnaire's  son — he  was  kidnapped  or  de- 
coyed, or  something  like  that,  with  a  big  sum  of  money 
on  him,  and  never  heerd  of  no  more." 

"And  Mr.  Desmond,  what  has  pots  of  money  of 
his  own,  did  it  to  get  the  money?  Goo  on!"  said 
Tenterley,  scornfully. 

Constable  Thomas  watched  them  all,  leaning  for- 
ward, arms  on  his  knees ;  and  saw  old  Johnstone  listen- 
ing with  a  greedy,  craving  expression  that  caught  his 
attention. 

"It  was  a  queer  story,  that  about  Mr.  Desmond," 
he  ventured. 

"Ay.  Queer  and  crooked,"  said  Tenterley,  curtly. 
He  had  championed  the  missing  man  stoutly,  and  felt 
personally  cheated  when  he  returned. 

"Noo  one  wou'dn't  have  believed  it,"  said  the  bird- 
seed man,  affably.  "And  my  niece,  she's  housemaid 
at  Gotto's,  she  says  that  it's  fair  crool  to  hear  the  way 
the  old  man  goos  on  about  the  crime,  as  he  calls  it; 
not  that  Mr.  Desmond  don't  deserve  all  he  get,  after 
the  way  he  behave." 

"Ah,  but  there's  a  lot  of  diffrence  'tween  playing 
it  up  on  a  woman,  or  with  a  woman,  as  you  might 
say,  and  taking  a  man's  life,"  opined  the  other  carter. 
"Mr.  Desmond,  he  treated  his  wife  crool,  he  did.  But 
that's  not  to  say  he  committed  murder." 

"Well,"  said  Tenterley,  tartly,  "we  were  all  wrong 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND    175 

before,  so  we'd  best  not  be  too  sartain  now.  And  if 
Mr.  Desmond  killed  young  Mr.  Marx,  perhaps  it  would 
be  a  better  excuse  for  him  than  if  he  hadn't.  I  was 
thinking,  he  might  have  killed  him  for  something  that 
wasn't  the  money!" 

"Both  after  the  same  girl,"  nodded  the  young  car- 
ter. "Very  likely;  and  the  money  would  come  in 
handy  to  get  away  with.  Well,  it's  a  funny  place. 
People  appear,  and  disappear,  and  there's  no  explana- 
tion  "  he  broke  off  abruptly. 

"There's  explanations,  all  right,"  interrupted  Amos 
Johnstone,  standing  up  and  cutting  him  short. 
"There's  explanations.  But  them  as  has  them  to  give 
wun't  give  them.  I  never  spoke  much  of  it  afore,  but 
Mr.  Desmond,  he  might  tell  something  about  my  Willie, 
and  so  might  Miss  Teresa,  if  they  was  arxked." 

He  looked  so  wrought  up,  so  flushed,  that  they  all 
thought  him  fit  for  some  mad  deed  that  in  truth 
would  get  him,  finally,  "put  away"  as  insane.  And 
when  he  pushed  his  way  to  the  door  and  turned  up 
the  lane,  they  stood  in  the  road  looking  after  him, 
and  making  comment  according  to  their  kind. 

When  Johnstone  got  to  the  broad,  planted  road  on 
which  the  front  entrances  to  The  Meadows  and  The 
Leas  were  situated,  and  which  meandered  pleasantly 
on  to  Farmer  Johnstone's  farm,  The  Homestead,  he 
paused.  Full  of  schemes,  plots,  mysteries,  and  un- 
ravelment  of  them,  as  his  poor  mind  was,  it  tended  to 
make  him  cunning  and  suspicious. 

"I  wun't,"  he  said  to  himself.    "If  he's  that  sort, 


176    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

he'd  have  me  made  away  with  too;  and  I  got  to  find 
out  about  my  Willie.  I  mustn't  let  myself  be  made 
away  with.  I'll  go  to  this  'ere  Lord  Gotto." 

It  was  a  harder  job  than  he  bargained  for,  to  get 
past  the  careless  but  nervous  household  staff  to  an 
interview  with  the  bawling  lord.  Some  of  the  serv- 
ants at  Fairlands  Park  were  afflicted  with  their  master's 
vice  of  arrogance,  some  of  them  too  much  afraid  of 
him  to  chance  his  anger.  Johnstone  had  not  the 
knack  of  making  himself  seem  of  importance. 

He  haunted  the  gates  of  the  drive  until  afraid  the 
lodge-keepers  would  give  him  in  charge  as  a  suspicious 
character.  And  at  last  the  great  car  came  whizzing 
along.  Luckily  it  was  an  awkward  turn,  and  the 
driver  had  to  slow  down;  otherwise  Johnstone  would 
never  have  had  the  courage  to  stop  them. 

"What's  he  want?"  bawled  Lord  Gotto.  "Wants  to 
speak  to  me?  What  the  devil  about?  Who  is  he?" 

"My  name's  Johnstone,  Amos  Johnstone,  brother 
of  Farmer  Bartholomew  Johnstone,  of  the  Homestead 
Farm,  Lower  Domain,  where  the  body  of  an  unknown 
man  was  found,"  said  Johnstone,  gabbling  off  his  long- 
prepared  speech.  "It  is  about  the  body,  my  lord.  I 
want  to  speak  to  you;  private,  arxking  your  pardon." 

"I  can't  speak  to  you  now!"  retorted  Lord  Gotto, 
angrily.  Then,  as  Johnstone  made  no  further  sug- 
gestion, the  shouting  peer  ordered  him  to  come  to 
the  Park  next  ifibrning  at  eleven.  Then  he  bawled  at 
the  chauffeur  to  drive  on. 

He  Was  full  of  his  own  perspicacity  in  so  working 
up  the  affair  that  "information  was  beginning  to  roll 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND    177 

in,  to  roll  in,"  and  made  it  his  chief  topic  of  conver- 
sation for  the  day.  It  naturally  endeared  him  greatly 
to  the  members  of  his  club  in  whose  hearing  he 
lunched,  and  to  his  family  later  on. 

When  Johnstone  got  to  the  Park  next  morning,  he 
found  Mr.  Talbot  as  well  as  Lord  Gotto.  On  a  spasm 
of  confidence  which  he  afterwards  regretted,  Lord 
Gotto  had  sent  for  the  J.P.  to  teach  him  his  les- 
son. 

Poor  old  Johnstone!  His  tale,  about  his  lost  Willie, 
was  a  very  halting  one.  Got  into  bad  company,  and 
misappropriated  what  was  trusted  to  him,  for  gambling 
and  drinking.  Knew  a  "gentleman,"  who  "thought  a 
lot  of  him."  The  "gentleman"  was  a  lover  of  Missie 
at  The  Domain,  and  they  all  disappeared  together. 

"All  disappeared?"  roared  Lord  Gotto.  "What  the 
devil  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  try  and  explain,  Johnstone,"  said  Mr.  Talbot, 
gently.  "Don't  shout  at  him,  Gotto.  You  confuse 
him.  Come,  my  good  man;  your  son — did  he  disap- 
pear suddenly " 

"He  never  came  to  say  good-bye,"  mournfully  in- 
sisted Johnstone,  "and  I  had  a  penny  or  two  put  by, 
that  I  promised  to  hand  him.  But  he  never  came, 
nor  never  wrote;  and  the  young  lady,  she  wuz  gone  too, 
and  they  saying  at  The  Domain  that  she  had  been  sent 
back  to  her  mother,  but  not  a  bit  of  luggage  left  the 
house  till  more'n'ten  days  later,  and  wuz  sent  to  the 
big  station — Victoria,  'twas,  I  think — in  London — ten 
days  after  I  saw  her  goo  off  with  the  gentleman  that 
wuz  her  sweetheart.  He  used  to  meet  my  Willie  over 


178    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

there  by  the  sheds,  where  the  manure  heaps  wuz. 
Some  game  they  had  on  there  that  I  couldn't  get  the 
hang  on,  but  many  a  time  I  saw  them  there — a  bigger 
man  than  my  Willie;  and  one  to  swear!  I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  heard  anyone  lay  to  it  like  that.  And  my 
Willie  told  me,  the  young  lady  liked  him  fine  too — my 
Willie,  I  mean;  not  the  other.  He  used  to  come  and 
goo  in  the  market-carts,  the  other  gentleman  did;  all 
hidden  up.  I  never  said  no  word  till  now,  out  of  re- 
spec'  for  the  fam'ly,  and  Milady  so  good  to  my  pore 
wife  when  she  lay  a-dying,  and  reading  the  Bible  to  her, 
and  the  Squire  stopping  and  arxking  for  her  every 
day,  and  they  giving  my  Willie  his  very  first  little  pair 
of  breeches " 

"What  a  thoroughly  disreputable  business,"  bel- 
lowed Lord  Gotto,  as  old  Johnstone  paused.  "It  is 
high  time  it  was  shown  up.  And  this  goes  on  under  our 
nose;  immoral  intrigues  and  God  knows  what  besides 
— murders  wholesale — wholesale." 

"There  is  no  question  of  any  murder  yet,"  remarked 
Mr.  Talbot,  "other  than  the  one  we  know  of  already. 
What  makes  you  want  to  rake  all  this  up,  Johnstone? 
Do  you  imagine  the  body  you  found  was  this  man 
who  was  your  son's  friend?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Talbot,  sir.  And  I  wants  the  ground 
turned  all  round  them  shedses.  My  boy's  lying  there 
too,  somewhere  about;  and  he's  got  the  same  call  to 
be  tuck  up  and  put  in  holy  ground,  the  same  as  the 
other.  He's  got  his  rights  to  that,  and  to  have  his 
name  cleared.  I  wants  to  see  it  done  afore  I  goos, 
so's  I  may  rest  easy.  I  got  a  right  to  my  rest;  it's 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND         179 

all  that  I  got  to  look  forrard  to,  and  I  wants  to  rest 
easy." 

"And  will  your  brother  consent  to  allow  this  to  be 
done?" 

Johnstone  shook  his  head. 

"Not  without  some  of  the  gentry  getting  at  him,"  he 
admitted,  mournfully. 

"But  look  here,  Johnstone.  The  young  lady — she 
is  not  young  any  longer — she  is  back.  She  seems  to 
have  been  principally  concerned  in  all  this  intrigue; 
you  say  you  saw  her  go  off  with  her  lover.  If  she 
is  back,  why  don't  you  ask  her?" 

"I  arxked  her,  Mr.  Talbot,  sir.  I  arxked  her  and 
Master  Arthur — that's  Major  Gervase,  sir.  And  she 
outfaced  me  that  she  knew  nothing  at  all  about  me 
or  my  Willie;  and  Major  Gervase,  he  said  to  come  and 
see  him  in  the  study,  but  when  I  came,  he  saw  me  in 
the  yard  and  said  he  couldn't  discuss  it." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  hadn't  told  anybody  else," 
roared  Lord  Gotto,  with  such  suddenness  that  John- 
stone  dropped  his  hat. 

"I  didn't  tell,  my  lord.  'Cos  why,  they  all  knoo 
about  it  already!  I  arxkt;  I  didn't  tell.  I  arxkt  them 
to  tell  me  what  become  of  my  boy,  which  she  and  her 
spark,  they  promise  him  all  sorts  of  things.  And  all 
she  says  was,  'Is  it  a  joke  or  a  lunacy?'  And  Major 
Gervase,  he  'can't  discuss  it'!" 

The  wail  of  anguish  in  the  man's  voice  reached  Mr. 
Talbot's  heart. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  speak  to  Major  Gervase  for 
you?"  he  asked. 


i8o    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

The  look  of  gratitude  on  Johnstone's  face  was  even 
more  pathetic  than  his  quavering  voice. 

"And  if  you  could  persuade  my  brother,  Mr.  Talbot, 
sir,  to  have  that  there  ground  turned  over,"  he  pursued, 
thanking  both  the  gentlemen  effusively,  and  taking  a 
humble  leave. 

"I  never  heard  such  a  tale  in  my  life!"  said  Lord 
Gotto,  loudly  and  angrily,  making  horrid  sucking  noises 
with  his  teeth  and  taking  not  the  slightest  notice  of 
Johnstone's  humble  farewell.  "It's  disgraceful,  that's 
what  it  is.  Disgraceful.  It  ought  to  be  shown  up; 
and  by  heaven,  Talbot,  I'll  see  to  it  that  it  is." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Talbot,  mildly,  "it  hasn't  got  any- 
thing to  do  with  either  Mr.  Desmond  or  young  Marx, 
has  it?" 

This  put  Lord  Gotto  in  a  fury. 

"How  do  we  know  it  hasn't?  How  do  we  know 
how  many  more  people  were  involved?  Half  the  coun- 
try-side might  have  been  in  it,  for  all  we  know!" 

"In  what?"  asked  Mr.  Talbot.  "Stealing  Farmer 
Johnstone's  market  stuff,  or  making  love  to  the  Gervase 
girl?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  wrong  with  you,  Talbot,"  said 
Lord  Gotto,  loudly  and  firmly.  "You  have  no  faculty 
of  deduction.  You  can't  see  when  two  and  two  make 
four.  You  don't  see  what  is  sticking  out  under  your 
nose.  I  can  see  as  far  into  a  brick  wall  as  most  men — 
perhaps  a  bit  further — and  7  don't  require  to  hear  a 
policeman  swear  one  lie  and  half  a  dozen  witnesses 
swear  more  lies,  before  I  know  what's  what,  and  who's 
who." 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND    181 

"And  what  is  what,  and  who  is  who,  and  what  is  it 
that  is  in  the  brick  wall,  or  under  my  nose,  in  this  par- 
ticular matter?" 

Mr.  Talbot  was  nettled. 

"I  can  find  you  in  evidence,  Talbot,  but  I  can't  find 
you  in  brains  to  assimilate  it,"  shouted  Lord  Gotto,  in 
what  was  intended  to  be  genial  waggishness.  "You 
wait  for  your  policeman,  old  man,  and  your  experts; 
and  your  witnesses.  They'll  tell  you  all  about  it! 
Come  in  to  lunch.  Let's  tell  milady." 

Mr.  Talbot  was  not  a  man  to  take  hasty  action, 
or  to  intrude  in  people's  affairs  without  just  and  sound 
reasons.  In  this  case,  so  vague,  so  involved,  he  could 
see  no  reason  that  would  avail  him  except  the  plea  for 
poor  old  Johnstone's  peace  of  mind.  He  could  hardly 
in  decency  drag  up  Teresa  Gervase's  youthful  love  af- 
fairs, no  matter  how  discreditable;  and  to  expect  her 
brother  to  discuss  them  with  him  to  please  Johnstone 
was  altogether  too  preposterous.  Yet,  in  his  capacity 
as  a  justice,  he  felt  he  had  a  clear  right  to  ask  that 
all  information  should  be  given  to  the  old  man  to  prove, 
either  that  his  son  and  his  son's  friend  or  associate 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  remains  found  in  the  place 
where  they  used  to  foregather;  or  failing  that,  what  the 
fate  of  that  son  had  been. 

He  called  on  Farmer  Bartholomew  Johnstone  first. 
It  was  decidedly,  the  least  unpleasing  of  the  two  inter- 
views. 

Farmer  Johnstone  was  angry,  impatient  and  scorn- 
ful; and  did  not  want  to  waste  his  time  over  nonsense. 
Amos  was  a  pore  daft  old  fool.  What  did  people  listen 


182    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

to  un  fur?  If  all  the  dafties  was  to  get  listened  to,  the 
world  'ud  be  a  queer  place.  Darned  sight  queerer  nor 
what  it  is  already. 

Mr.  Talbot  pointed  out  that  Lord  Gotto  was  quite 
determined  to  re-open  the  question  of  the  identity  of 
the  body  found  near  the  manure-heaps.  Amos's 
grievance  was  well-known;  it  was  no  new  thing.  It 
gave  colour  to  a  lot  of  suspicions  that  might  cause 
annoyance  to  quite  innocent  people.  And  he,  person- 
ally, would  think  it  a  great  favour  if  Farmer  Johnstone 
would  allow  a  thorough  overhauling  of  the  premises. 
Lord  Gotto  would  make  good  all  damage  and  incon- 
venience. 

When  he  left,  Farmer  Johnstone  had  promised, 
grudgingly  and  conditionally,  that  he  would  think  it 
over  and  let  Mr.  Talbot  know — a  state  of  things,  in 
regard  to  the  class  of  person  to  which  Farmer  John- 
stone  belonged,  which  might  reasonably  be  looked  upon 
as  meaning  that  he  was  agreeable  to  the  proposition 
and  only  not  wishing  to  be  hustled  into  carrying  it  out 
at  any  except  his  own  time. 

Mr.  Talbot  rightly  regarded  this  as  a  moral  and 
actual  triumph;  and  it  heartened  him  for  the  far  more 
difficult  interview  with  Major  Gervase,  towards  which 
he  looked  with  profound  distaste  and  wished  he  had 
not  in  his  good  nature  undertaken  it. 

Gervase,  too,  was  anything  but  pleased.  He  re- 
ceived Mr.  Talbot  with  cordiality;  but  stiffened  when 
that  gentleman  broached  his  reason  for  calling.  After 
a  sharp  exchange  of  compliment,  Mr.  Talbot  fired  off 
a  shot  in  good  earnest. 


LORD  GOTTO  TAKES  A  HAND          183 

"Your  sister,  Major  Gervase — forgive  me  for  being 
so  plain — has  not  got  a  good  reputation  in  this  part 
of  the  world.  She,  too,  left  the  village  under  a  very 
serious  cloud,  and — if  I  may  venture  to  say  so^  in 
rather  a  strange  fashion.  She  is,  so  far  as  we  know, 
the  last  person  who  saw  young  Johnstone.  It  was  her 
lover  who  met  him  at  the  Homestead  Farm,  near  those 
sheds  of  Johnstone's.  It  is  quite  possible  that  young 
Johnstone  was  the  murderer  of  that  lover,  in  some  quar- 
rel about  her;  and  that  the  remains  found  were  those  of 
this  unknown  person,  this  lover.  I  think  it  is  most 
important  that  she  should  make  a  statement;  and  in 
my  capacity  as  a  justice,  it  is  my  business  to  see  that 
she  does.  If  she  will  not,  we  can  only  come  to  one 
conclusion,  and  that  is,  that  she  was  an  accomplice  in 
some  serious  crime." 

It  was  the  purest  bluff,  but  he  felt  it  to  be  justified. 
And  Arthur  did  not  know  enough  to  recognise  it  as 
bluff.  He  was  seriously  alarmed. 

"You  cannot  expect  me  to  want  to  have  my  sister's 
name  dragged  into  all  this,"  he  protested.  "It  will  be 
terrible  for  Lady  Katherine;  and  there  are  the  young- 
sters— Good  Heavens!  It  will  be  a  horrible  business. 
Besides,  when  you  have  stirred  it  all  up  and  made 
everybody  uncomfortable,  what  do  you  expect  to  find? 
It  is  perfectly  absurd  to  suggest  that  a  girl  of  that 
age  got  all  these  men  to  murder  each  other!" 

He  talked  at  random,  to  gain  time. 

"Will  your  sister  see  me?"  asked  Mr.  Talbot, 
gravely. 

"She  is  not  up,"  answered  Gervase,  thankful  that 


1 84    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Teresa's  slovenly  habits  kept  her  in  bed  until  all  hours. 
"I  will  ask  her  and  will  let  you  know  what  she  says; 
and  I  must  be  guided  by  that  as  to  what  I  shall  tell 
my  grandmother." 

"I  should  not  allow  a  long  delay,  if  I  were  you,"  said 
Mr.  Talbot,  significantly. 

"And  I  shall  certainly  not  put  pressure  on  either 
of  them,"  retorted  Arthur.  "If  there  is  anything  un- 
pleasant that  you  feel  it  your  duty  to  do,  you  must 
take  full  responsibility  for  it.  I  think  you  are  riding 
on  a  very  false  scent  and  will  look  a  fool  for  your 
pains.  I  suppose  we  have  that  consummate  old  idiot 
Gotto  to  thank  for  this!" 

This  conclusion  did  not  please  Mr.  Talbot,  and  he 
left  in  an  ill-humour  that  a  subsequent  encounter  with 
the  Sherlock  Holmesing  peer  did  nothing  to  allay. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TERESA'S  TALONS 

THE  result  of  Lady  Katherine's  interview  with 
Teresa,  as  might  have  been  expected,  was  another 
collapse,  and  a  period  of  weakness  that  kept  her  to 
her  bed.  Teresa  secretly  rejoiced  in  the  midst  of 
everyone  else's  distress.  Hoping  for  the  old  lady's 
death,  she  realised  that  it  would  leave  her  free  to  re- 
main and  to  act  as  she  pleased.  For  she  knew  Arthur 
to  be  too  weak,  and  too  much  afraid  of  her,  to  take 
any  strong  steps  to  dislodge  her. 

That  Lady  Katherine  might  die  was  her  chief  hope. 
Nothing  would  suit  her  book  better.  The  three  days 
passed  without  anything  further  being  said  about  her 
departure. 

Lady  Katherine  was  perfectly  conscious  of  all  this, 
but  too  weak  to  take  any  action  for  the  moment. 

When  Arthur  told  Teresa  of  Mr.  Talbot's  visit, 
she  went  into  peals  of  mocking  laughter.  Not  a  word 
would  she  say  that  had  any  bearing  on  the  situation. 
Nevertheless,  she  took  stock  of  things  and  found  them 
awkward. 

She  had  come  on  a  perfectly  definite  quest,  to  which 
she  was  prepared  to  devote  as  much  leisure  and  energy 

185 


i86    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

as  it  required.  This  raking  up  of  old  and  entirely  un- 
interesting scandals  was  going  to  interfere  with  and 
handicap  her  activities.  Suppose  they  found  Willie 

Johnstone ?  She  did  not  like  dwelling  on  that 

possibility. 

Poisonous  old  fool,  Johnstone.  Pity  someone  could 
not  make  him  put  his  head  in  a  bag.  An  asylum  was 
the  proper  place  for  him,  anyway. 

On  Sunday,  in  church,  the  sly  malice  in  her  eyes 
was  noticeable  to  the  most  casual  observer,  and  was 
commented  on  at  Tenterley's,  where  it  was  opined 
that,  no  matter  what  it  were  that  she  had  come  back 
for,  she  were  up  to  no  good. 

After  lunch,  Hugh  came  round.  Bad  accounts  of 
Lady  Katherine's  condition  had  reached  him;  and  he 
rode  over  to  enquire.  He  was  not  a  bad-hearted  man, 
and  was  genuinely  sorry. 

Arthur  brought  him  in  to  the  library,  where  they 
smoked  and  drank  whiskies,  until  Teresa  intruded. 

"My  long-lost  brother ! "  she  exclaimed,  dramatically, 
with  her  wide  smile. 

"Pity  you  aren't  my  entirely-lost-sister,"  he  retorted, 
uncompromisingly.  "What  mischief  has  brought  you 
back  here?  Something  shady,  I  presume?" 

"Well,  I  don't  exactly  know  whether  you  are  just 
the  person  to  put  on  airs  about  that!"  countered 
Teresa,  with  effect. 

"I  suppose  it  is  your  welcome  arrival  that  has 
knocked  Gran  out  of  time,"  continued  Hugh,  unruffled. 

"I'm  afraid  my  family  is  not  as  affectionately  dis- 
posed as  it  ought  to  be,"  sighed  Teresa. 


TERESA'S  TALONS  187 

"You  may  flatter  yourself,"  assured  Hugh,  "that 
there  is  not  one  living  soul  in  the  world  who  is  glad 
you  are  alive." 

"It  is  a  great  tribute,"  agreed  Teresa,  solemnly. 

Then  Arthur  appealed  to  Hugh. 

"Look  here,  Hugh.  Do  you  remember  anything 
about  her  carryings-on,  just  before  she  went  away? 
There  is  a  fuss  being  made  about  a  fellow  called  John- 
stone — one  Willie  Johnstone,  who  was  in  the  market- 
garden  business.  His  father  wants  to  know  what  be- 
came of  him,  and  declares  that  Teresa  knows." 

"I  remember  Johnstone  all  right,"  said  Hugh,  read- 
ily. "He  used  to  come  here  to  collect  stuff.  There 
was  an  arrangement — there  still  is,  isn't  there? — about 
having  our  stuff  taken  up  to  market;  he  used  to  come 
here,  and  see  it  loaded  up." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  and  Teresa  together?" 

"She  always  had  a  lot  to  say  to  him,"  replied  Hugh, 
crumpling  up  his  forehead  in  an  effort  to  remember. 
"I  had  the  room  in  the  Old  Tower  for  a  workshop,  and 
I  often  used  to  see  her  and  him.  He  used  to  go  down 
with  her  into  the  cellar." 

"He  used  to?"  in  extreme  surprise. 

"Yes.  Some  yarn  about  the  mushroom  beds.  She 
used  to  say  old  whatsisname  didn't  understand  them." 

"When  did  you  last  see  him,  Hugh?" 

"Oh,  I  really^can't  remember." 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  friend  of  his — a  big  man,  fair, 
who  used  frightful  language?" 

Hugh  shook  his  head. 

All  through  this  dialogue,  Teresa  stood,  apparently 


i88    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

unmoved,  her  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  one  foot  on 
the  fender,  her  splendid  eyes  flashing  backwards  and 
forwards  between  the  two  brothers  who  hated  her.  At 
mention  of  the  big,  fair  man  who  used  frightful 
language  she  shifted  her  position  and  looked  down  at 
her  beautifully  shod  feet. 

"What  did  you  do  down  the  cellar  with  Will  John- 
stone?"  suddenly  fired  off  Arthur. 

"Mind  your  own  business,"  retorted  Teresa. 

The  two  men  left  the  room  in  silence,  and  with  one 
accord  found  their  steps  leading  them  to  the  Old 
Tower.  Taking  the  keys  from  Adams's  nail,  they 
swung  open  the  big  door  and  went  in  to  investigate. 
Lance  and  Guin  were  just  making  for  The  Meadows 
and  peeped  in  with  them. 

"Can't  we  have  Uncle  Hugh's  room  for  a  playroom?" 
they  pleaded.  "We've  always  meant  to  ask  you,  Uncle 
Arthur." 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  agreed  Arthur  carelessly. 
"I'll  tell  Adams  to  clean  it  up.  Run  away  now." 

The  children  departed,  in  high  feather;  and  the  in- 
vestigation proceeded,  without,  however,  revealing 
traces  of  Willie  Johnstone  or  his  fate. 

Teresa  passed  them  as  they  emerged,  dusty  and  cob- 
webby, and  laughed  her  mocking  laugh.  She  went  out 
at  the  little  door  into  the  lane. 

The  enquiry  about  Willie  Johnstone  was  getting  an- 
noying. She  felt  that  her  other  business  might  be  in- 
terfered with  materially. 

Mr.  Desmond  nearly  always  went  for  a  walk  with 
one  or  other  of  his  Daughters,  on  Sunday  afternoon. 


TERESA'S  TALONS  189 

It  was  his  old  habit;  singling  out  the  children  in  turn. 
Teresa  walked  up  and  down  the  lane  two  or  three  times, 
before  he  came  out.  He  had  Kythe  with  him— a  re- 
luctant, rather  sullen  Kythe,  who  revolted  from  her 
father's  company. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Desmond;  this  is  quite  fortunate,"  purred 
Teresa,  in  her  deep  voice. 

Mr.  Desmond  looked,  on  the  contrary,  as  if  it 
were  quite  unfortunate. 

"My  boy  and  girl  are  at  your  house,  I  believe? 
I  wonder  if  your  daughter  would  be  so  very  kind  as 
to  find  them  and  tell  them  I  want  them  to  come  for  a 
walk?" 

Kythe  went,  demurely  and  without  alacrity.  She 
no  more  enjoyed  running  errands  for  Mrs.  Gervase 
than  going  for  walks  with  her  father;  and  she  knew 
Lance  and  Guin  would  simply  hate  being  fetched  away 
by  their  mother. 

She  passed  in  at  the  gate,  and  Mr.  Desmond  stood, 
looking  embarrassed,  but  more  stubborn  than  em- 
barrassed. What  Teresa  said  to  him  was  hi  a  per- 
emptory whisper.  At  first  he  looked  angry,  then 
startled,  then  sullen;  and  she  cut  in  again  with  a 
ripple  of  quick,  incisive  whispering. 

When  Kythe  came  out  with  Lance  and  Guin,  they 
all  went  for  a  walk  together.  The  brutal  tone  was  in 
Mr.  Desmond's  voice,  and  malice  indescribable  in 
Teresa's  eye.  They  talked  in  low  tones  with  short 
sentences  and  long  pauses. 

Gervase  went  home  with  his  brother,  and  paid  his 
respects  to  Mrs.  Hugh.  Her  dyed  head  looked  ar> 


190    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

palling,  ridiculous  as  a  pretence  and  crude  as  an 
artistic  effect.  The  salve  and  powder  combined  were 
peeling  flakes  off  her  lips,  and  her  nose  had  a  whitened 
end  that  looked  like  a  clown's.  She  was  a  good- 
natured  creature,  and  said  the  right  things  about 
Lady  Katherine,  and  surprised  Arthur  by  the  quite 
charming  manners  in  which  she  had  trained  her  little 
girl. 

"We  christened  her  Katherine,  you  see,"  explained 
Mrs.  Hugh.  "So  we  had  to  have  her  brought  up  to 
behave  nice." 

Arthur  responded  gratefully,  made  himself  agree- 
able to  the  vulgar  sisters,  and  went  on  to  the  Manor 
Farm,  where  he  poured  out  his  perplexities  to  Tom 
Leigh  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raymond,  who  were  on  their 
way  to  the  Mission  Church  in  a  distant  corner  of  the 
parish.  Mr.  Raymond  was  genuinely  shocked. 

"And  if  that  dreadful  Lord  Gotto  has  got  hold  of 
it,"  said  Aunt  Hermione,  "it  will  be  worse  than  the 
bell-man!" 

He  stayed  and  dined  with  the  Leighs,  making  his  way 
home  with  the  hope  of  finding  Kythe  in  the  lane. 
After  a  little  dawdling,  he  heard  the  click  of  the  latch, 
and  she  came.  It  was  some  days  since  they  had  had 
a  meeting,  and  he  drew  her  inside  the  garden  door, 
among  some  bushes  and  held  her  close  in  his  arms. 

Neither  spoke.  He  kissed  her  several  times,  con- 
scious that  her  lips  were  passionate  and  unchildlike, 
and  enjoying  it,  the  while  it  made  him  uneasy.  She 
laid  her  face  in  his  neck,  and  leaned  against  him, 
with  little  sighs  of  restful  content, 


TERESA'S  TALONS  191 

Neither  of  them  noticed  the  passing  of  time  until 
a  faint  beat  of  footsteps  fell  on  their  ears.  Steps  were 
coming  down  the  lane,  leisurely,  measured;  a  pair  of 
lingering  sweethearts,  it  sounded  like. 

"Let  them  go  past,"  whispered  Kythe,  a  little 
nervously.  She  reached  out  her  hand  and  pushed  the 
door  to,  without  noise. 

The  footsteps  came  near,  growing  more  audible. 
The  pair  were  in  no  hurry,  whoever  they  were. 

Near  the  door  they  paused.  Gervase  clasped  Kythe 
a  little  closer  and  kissed  her  mouth,  in  sudden  sympathy 
with  the  lovers  outside,  who,  presumably,  were  doing 
the  same. 

Then  the  door  was  pushed  half  open.  The  murmur- 
ing voices  in  the  lane  became  more  distinct. 

"You  will  let  me  know  when  I  can  see  you  again?" 

The  rich,  purring  tones  were  very  recognisable. 

"Yes.  But  we'll  have  to  be  jolly  careful.  Don't 
talk  here.  It  is  not  safe." 

"Good-night,  Dave." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  brief  kiss,  a  low-toned 
wicked  laugh,  and  Desmond  stepped  over  the  thresh- 
old, shutting  the  door  with  extreme  caution  behind 
him.  Walking  on  the  grass  borders,  he  reached  the 
house  almost  without  a  sound,  and  got  in  by  his 
study  window. 

Gervase  felt  Kythe  stiffen  in  his  arms.  In  utter, 
unmoving  silence  they  stood,  so  horrified  at  the  revela- 
tion flashed  on  them,  as  hardly  even  to  be  relieved  at 
their  own  escape  from  detection.  They  heard  the  faint 
sounds  of  Mr.  Desmond's  careful  progress,  and  as  if 


192    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

in  accompaniment,  the  quick  springy  footsteps  of  the 
woman  who  went  on  down  the  lane.  When  the  steps 
paused,  both  strained  every  nerve  to  catch  the  sound 
they  knew  would  come  next — the  sucking  plug  of  The 
Domain  garden  door,  faint  in  the  distance. 

"Go  in,  darling,"  said  Gervase,  tenderly.  "Go  in 
and  go  to  bed,  and  don't  think  about  it  until  to-mor- 
row. I'll  come  over  and  see  you  to-morrow." 

She  said  never  a  word;  only  held  him  tight,  and 
kissed  him,  and  trembled  dreadfully.  He  watched 
her  go,  with  a  heart  wrung  with  pity  and  shame  and 
deepest  concern. 

What  a  devil  Teresa  wasl 

Thoughts,  horrible  thoughts,  held  him  in  thrall  all 
night.  He  had  made  love  to  young  Kythe,  in  what 
the  girl  could  not  but  believe  to  be  earnest;  and  he  had 
definitely  envisaged  the  thought  of  marrying  her. 
And  here  he  was,  involved  in  a  sort  of  secret  intrigue 
with  her,  while  his  sister  had  a  shameful  one  with  her 
father.  It  was  as  vile  a  situation  as  could  well  be 
devised. 

What  a  devil  Teresa  was ! 

He  tossed  and  turned,  unrested  and  uncomforted, 
and  wondered  what  in  the  world  he  ought  to  do. 

Lady  Katherine  was  better  next  day,  and  he  sat 
with  her  awhile,  avoiding  the  subject  of  Teresa  and 
such-like  disquieting  matters.  He  told  her  that  Hugh 
had  been,  and  that  he  had  called  on  Mrs.  Hugh.  The 
day  passed  wearily  and  lengthily;  in  the  late  afternoon 
he  went  over  to  The  Meadows. 


TERESA'S  TALONS  193 

Hero  and  Kythe,  with  Guin,  were  having  tea  in  the 
play-room,  and  Guin  was  recounting  vaingloriously 
Uncle  Arthur's  promise  to  let  her  and  Lance  have  the 
Tower  for  a  playroom. 

"And  Lance  says  we  must  look  for  secret  panels 
and  doorways  with  springs,"  she  added,  hopefully. 
"Here's  Uncle  Arthur!  Uncle  Arthur,  do  you  think 
there'll  be  a  secret  panel  in  the  playroom  of  the 
Tower?" 

"I  should  be  very  much  surprised  if  there  were," 
answered  Gervase,  swinging  himself  over  the  window 
sill.  "May  is  coming  in  a  minute,  Hero,  and  she 
says  you're  not  to  eat  all  the  almond  icing,  because 
she'll  want  some." 

He  talked,  lightly  enough,  until  Lance  turned  up, 
and  then  rose  to  go. 

"Coming  to  see  me  to  the  lane?"  he  asked,  catching 
Kythe's  arm. 

"Have  you  told  anyone?"  he  asked  her. 

"No,"  said  Kythe.     "Ought  I?" 

"Heaven  knows,"  answered  he. 

"Oh,  Arthur,  take  me  away.  Take  me  away  from 
this  horrible  house  and  all  these  things  that  make  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  going  mad.  It  doesn't  seem  like  real 
life,  our  lives.  It  seems  like  nightmares.  And  Mother 
is  going  to  die.  I  know  she  is  going  to  die,  and  I  can't 
bear  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  here  to  see  it.  I  should 
kill  him." 

"Very  well,"  said  Arthur,  setting  his  teeth  and 
making  up  his  mind.  "I'll  tell  your  father  I  am  going 


194    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

to  marry  you,  and  I'll  arrange  with  your  Uncle  Harry 
for  you  to  have  a  year  with  him  on  the  Continent  first. 
He  said  he  did  not  want  to  come  home  yet,  didn't  he?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Kythe.  "And  said  he  was  lonely, 
too;  and  they  were  talking  of  May  going  out  to  him." 

"And  I  can  come  and  see  you  now  and  then,"  re- 
sumed Gervase.  "And  when  your  mother  is  all  right 
again — of  course  she  will  be  all  right,  you  goosie — 
we  will  be  married.  I'll  talk  to  Gran  about  it  tonight." 

Making  up  his  mind  to  the  effort,  he  went  to  Lady 
{Catherine's  room  after  dinner. 

"Gran!  I  have  been  making  up  my  mind.  I  want 
a  wife  and  heirs  of  my  own,  as  poor  young  Lance  can't 
inherit;  and  I  am  thinking  of  marrying  the  little  Des- 
mond girl.  Would  you  be  pleased,  or  would  you  hate 
it?" 

There  was  a  long  and  horrible  pause. 

The  old  lady's  face  was  grey  and  stricken.  In  her 
distress  she  could  find  no  words,  she  only  moaned  and 
drew  deep,  painful  breaths. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  quite  impossible,  Arthur." 

He  caught  the  faint  whisper. 

"Why,  Gran,  dear?" 

Again  a  painful  pause.     Then, 

"Teresa — because  of  her — she  has  been  a  curse  to 
us,  Arthur." 

With  difficulty  he  heard  the  words,  so  faint  was  her 
voice. 

"I  did  not  know  you  knew  about  that,"  he  said, 
greatly  pained.  "But  if  you  send  her  away,  Gran, 
need  it  matter  so  much?" 


TERESA'S  TALONS  195 

He  thought  he  heard  the  reply,  something  about 
"the  children,"  but  rose  to  get  her  some  brandy  and 
then  refused  to  let  her  say  more.  He  wandered  up  the 
lane  and  found  Kythe  waiting  for  him,  and  in  the 
shelter  of  the  climbing  rose  bushes,  where  there  was 
a  small  rustic  seat,  they  sat  in  forlorn  comradeship  for 
a  long  time.  Kythe  was  horrified  to  hear  that  Lady 
Katherine  knew  about  her  father's  aberration. 

A  little  after  ten,  Mr.  Desmond  came  stealthily  along 
the  walk,  treading  on  the  grass.  He  opened  the  door 
and  was  joined  by  someone  outside.  A  long  exchange 
of  whispering  took  place,  and  he  accompanied  his  com- 
panion down  the  lane,  and,  apparently,  into  The 
Domain  garden.  Kythe  cried  passionately  and  begged 
Gervase  to  get  her  away;  and  even  suggested  going  for 
Aunt  Hermione  and  getting  her  to  come  and  confront 
her  brother  with  his  wickedness. 

They  were  still  talking,  less  agitatedly,  when  the 
door  in  the  wall  opened  stealthily  and  Mr.  Desmond 
came  in. 

"Who  is  there?"  he  asked,  suddenly  and  sharply, 
with  a  sound  in  his  throat  that  was  almost  blood- 
thirsty. 

"I  am,  Mr.  Desmond,"  answered  Gervase.  "Arthur 
Gervase." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

The  threat  in  his  tone  was  unmistakable. 

"I  think,"  answered  Gervase,  stirred  to  wrath  by 
the  attempt  to  bully  him,  "that  my  conduct  is  quite 
as  defensible  as — yours." 

"What  might  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mr.  Des- 


196    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

mond,  in  the  same  tone;  "and  whom  have  you  there 
with  you?  Kythe?  What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  . 

He  spoke  curtly,  contemptuously,  in  tones  that  stung. 

"I  don't  know  what  particular  right  you  have  to 
ask,"  returned  Gervase.  "Shall  we  come  inside  and 
talk  it  over,  or  would  you  prefer  to  come — back  to 
The  Domain?" 

He  emphasised  the  word  "back." 

"Come  in,"  said  Desmond,  curtly. 

In  his  study,  he  turned  on  the  light  and  sat  with 
his  back  to  it.  Kythe,  her  fear  gone,  looked  him  un- 
flinchingly in  the  face,  with  the  steady  gaze  of  hatred. 

"May  I  receive  an  explanation?"  asked  Mr.  Des- 
mond. 

"Certainly.  I  want  to  marry  your  daughter,  and 
came  this  evening  to  tell  her  that  my  grandmother 
considers  your  intrigue  with  my  sister,  which  she  has 
unfortunately  discovered,  a  very  strong  objection  to 
such  an  arrangement." 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence. 

Then  Mr.  Desmond  dropped  his  head  on  his  arms 
and  broke  down. 

His  terrible  sobs  sounded  loud  in  the  shocked  hush 
of  their  voices.  The  scar  on  his  head  glistened  angrily. 
Not  another  word  was  spoken.  Once  when  Gervase 
moved  a  little  in  his  chair,  the  noise  seemed  monstrous 
and  indecent.  They  might  have  sat  like  that  for 
hours  had  not  the  strange  sympathy  that  had  often 
operated  so  oddly,  brought  Mrs.  Desmond  down  to  her 
husband's  room. 


TERESA'S  TALONS  197 

They  rose  as  she  entered,  but  she  took  little  notice 
of  them.  Her  eyes  were  for  the  sobbing  man  with  the 
bowed  head.  Shielding  him  from  their  sight  with  her 
body,  and  putting  a  tender  hand  round  his  convulsed 
throat,  she  motioned  them  impatiently  away.  They 
crept  from  the  room  with  guilty  stealth,  shutting  the 
door  behind  them. 

Gervase  sped  away  to  the  Rectory,  leaving  Kythe 
with  May  and  Hero.  None  of  the  brothers  were  at 
home. 

To  the  Raymonds  he  told  all  he  knew,  and  walked 
back  with  them  to  The  Meadows.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Des- 
mond were  still  in  the  study;  his  strangling  sobs  had 
died  down,  there  was  a  low  murmur  of  voices.  No 
one  liked  to  go  in. 

It  was  late  before  any  one  slept,  and  Mr.  Desmond 
was  pathetically  grateful  for  his  sister's  ministrations. 
For,  obviously,  Mrs.  Desmond  was  none  the  better 
for  the  storm  of  emotion  through  which  they  had 
passed,  and  Dr.  Willett  was  sent  for  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning. 

How  much  of  confidence  had  passed  between  hus- 
band and  wife,  no  one  knew.  Mr.  Desmond  was  out 
early,  as  was  his  wont;  and  took  his  place  at  the 
breakfast  table  with  very  nearly  his  usual  appear- 
ance. Neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Desmond  said  anything 
to  Kythe.  Her  shy  eyes  shunned  her  father's  face, 
and  her  manner ,"in  her  mother's  room,  was  uneasy 
and  evasive.  She  had  no  notion  if  Mrs.  Desmond 
had  been  told  of  the  incident  in  which  Gervase  had 


198    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

taken  a  part.  Gervase  waited  for  the  Raymonds  to 
do  or  say  something  that  would  give  him  a  lead,  but 
they,  too,  were  at  fault,  and  knew  not  what  to  say 
or  advise. 

In  the  next  few  days,  all  sorts  of  things  happened 
with  a  rush.  Farmer  Johnstone  suddenly  made  up 
his  mind  that  it  was  his  dooty  to  do  something  to 
please  the  gentry;  and  set  several  labourers  to  work 
to  clear  the  accumulations  of  rubbish  from  round  the 
old  sheds,  where  the  manure-heaps  lay,  preparatory 
to  a  series  of  excavations.  This  gave  rise  to  tre- 
mendous excitement;  and  anyone  who  had  leisure 
drifted  round  without  apology  to  watch  the  opera- 
tions, exchange  reflections  with  Farmer  Johnstone,  and 
drink  some  of  the  home-brewed  for  which  the  Home- 
stead Farm  was  famous. 

Gervase,  on  the  other  hand,  unsettled  and  uncertain 
of  himself,  threw  his  energies  into  the  task  of  con- 
verting Hugh's  deserted  workshop  in  the  Old  Tower 
into  a  suitable  room  for  Lance  and  Guin.  Teresa,  ma- 
licious and  mocking,  came  at  pretty  frequent  inter- 
vals to  gibe  and  sneer  and  laugh  mysterious  laughs 
that  conveyed  no  idea  of  the  cause  of  her  merriment. 
Her  presence  was  never  welcome,  and  always  brought 
a  certain  amount  of  irritation. 

Lance,  with  a  steady  concentration  on  his  own 
fad,  made  minute  and  diligent  search  for  the  secret 
panel  or  spring  door  which  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
finding.  There  was  as  little  in  the  room,  old  though 
it  was,  as  there  was  in  Farmer  Johnstone's  manure- 
heaps,  to  encourage  any  such  fancy;  yet  by  a  coin- 


TERESA'S  TALONS  199 

cidence,  both  sets  of  searchers  found  something  for 
which  they  little  bargained,  on  one  and  the  same  day. 
It  was  Gum's  clever  fingers,  and  not  Lance's  patience 
and  perseverance,  that  brought  them  to  the  goal  of 
discovery. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN 

KYTHE  heard  from  Guin  that  Uncle  Arthur  was 
busy  about  the  room;  but  she  did  not  feel  that  it 
was  business  important  enough  to  keep  him  away 
from  her  after  what  had  happened.  She  fretted  and 
lay  awake  and  wondered  how  things  could  possibly 
work  themselves  out;  and  then  made  up  her  mind 
to  have  it  settled  one  way  or  the  other.  Her  mother 
needed  constant  care,  and  Mr.  Desmond  spent  so 
much  of  his  time  with  her  that  there  was  no  opportun- 
ity, even  had  Kythe  had  the  inclination,  for  confi- 
dences. Mrs.  Desmond  was,  as  May  had  said,  almost 
entirely  monopolised  and  cut  off  from  her  children 
by  the  objectionable  man  who  was  their  father;  and 
Kythe  felt  lost,  lonely  and  desperate. 

She  came  to  the  Tower  room,  at  the  invitation  of 
Lance  and  Guin,  and  sat,  watching  Gervase,  as  he 
directed  the  removal  of  the  ugly  fire-grate  that  spoilt 
the  room.  When  the  men  had  gone,  Gervase  came 
and  sat  beside  her  in  the  deep  window-seat.  Lance 
and  Guin  had  dived  into  the  cellar,  engrossed  in  some 
piece  of  vandalism  for  the  beautifying  of  the  upstairs 
room. 

200 


MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN  201 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  to  my  father  again?"  asked 
Kythe,  her  face  burning. 

"If  you  like,"  said  Gervase,  looking  troubled.  "Had 
I  not  better  write?" 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  answered  Kythe,  after  consider- 
ation. Then  added,  "He'll  say  no." 

"Why?" 

"I  know  he  will,"  asserted  Kythe.  "It  is  too  mixed 
up."  By  this  she  was  alluding  to  her  father's  intrigue 
with  Gervase's  sister. 

Gervase  nodded,  understandingly. 

"What  are  we  to  do,  then?"  he  asked,  grasping  his 
nettle. 

She  hung  her  head  for  a  moment. 

"Will  you  take  me  away?"  she  whispered. 

"I  could  not  do  that,  sweetheart,"  he  replied.  "It 
would  be  too  disgraceful.  People  would  think  me  a 
hound,  and  quite  right  too.  Remember  how  young 
you  are,  darling.  But  I  would  try  and  get  Gran  to 
fix  it  up.  I  shall  have  trouble  with  her  too,  you 
know.  She  was  fearfully  bowled  over  when  I  told 
her  about  you." 

"How  did  she  get  to  know  about  Mrs.  Gervase?" 
asked  Kythe,  anxiously;  and  Gervase  admitted  that 
he  had  not  liked  to  ask  her. 

"But  what  are  we  to  do  about  it?"  asked  the  girl. 
"We  knew  .  .  .  about  each  other  before  they  began 
it.  Why  should  we  let  it  interfere?" 

"We  won't,"  said  Gervase,  drawing  her  to  his  side 
and  kissing  the  masses  of  soft  fawn  hair  that  were 
so  irresistibly  inviting.  "Only  wait  a  bit,  Kythe  dar- 


202     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

ling.  Wait  till  your  mother  is  all  right,  and  Teresa 
gone.  Gran  does  not  intend  her  to  stay  here,  and  we 
will  soon  be  rid  of  her." 

"Really?" 

They  started  guiltily  apart.  Teresa  was  just  out- 
side the  door,  and  Gervase  had  inadvertently  raised 
his  voice  in  speaking  the  last  sentences. 

She  looked  at  them  with  mocking,  wicked  eyes. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  she  gibed.  "Do  you 
think  you  will  get  rid  of  me  as  easily  as  that?  I 

can  assure  you "  she  was  in  one  of  her  evil  moods 

and  was  lashing  herself  to  fury,  "it  isn't  quite  such 
a  simple  proposition.  I  have  a  tighter  grip  than  you 
seem  to  understand,  and  a  closer  relationship.  Have 
you  any  idea,  poor  dear  innocent  turtle  doves,  billing 
and  cooing  so  confidingly;  have  you  any  idea  who 
Lance  and  Guin's  father  is,  I  wonder?" 

Kythe  stared  at  her,  fascinated.  The  evil  face  was 
convulsed  with  passion;  the  woman  had  lost  all  her 
grace  of  distinction  with  her  hold  over  her  temper. 

"Look  at  Guin's  hands,  if  you  want  to  find  out. 
There  is  another  pair,  the  dead  spit  of  them,  not  so 
far  off.  Clever  hands,"  with  extreme  sarcasm. 

"Hands  always  doing  something  that  isn't  their  job 
—hanging  pictures,  for  instance." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.    Then  Kythe  fainted. 

Teresa  sheered  off,  laughing  her  hateful  laugh;  and 
Gervase  was  left  to  face  the  situation. 

He  took, the  girl  home  without  one  word  being  ex- 
changed. Only  when  he  said  good-bye  did  he  kiss 
her,  long  and  lingeringly,  with  despair  in  his  heart. 


MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN  203 

The  kisses  comforted  her  a  little;  but  when  he  was 
gone,  she  bethought  her  that  perhaps  he  had  intended 
them  for  farewell,  and  in  her  misery  felt  as  if  her 
heart  must  burst. 

As  for  Gervase,  words  will  not  describe  his  state 
of  mind.  He  could  not  think  out  the  thing  that  had 
been  flung  at  him.  Thought  refused  to  come,  refused 
to  work,  recoiled  from  the  task  set  her.  He  could 
only  feel  furious,  baffled,  sickened,  defrauded. 

Marriage  with  Kythe  was,  beyond  doubt,  out  of 
the  question.  That  much  stood  out  clear.  The  rest 
was  a  confused  jumble,  in  which  the  disappearance 
of  Mr.  Desmond,  the  announcement  of  Teresa's  death 
and  Mr.  Desmond's  sudden  return,  the  remains  found 
at  the  Homestead,  young  Johnstone,  and  Lady  Kath- 
erine's  mysterious  illness  and  distress,  were  inextri- 
cably mixed.  He  could  not  sort  it  out.  His  mind 
rejected  it;  his  soul  sickened  at  it. 

What  a  devil  Teresa  was. 

A  vision  of  immeasurable  scandal  rose  before  his 
eyes,  a  sea  of  infamy  and  exposure  in  which  their 
name  would  be  sullied  beyond  bearing.  Why  did 
not  someone  murder  Teresa?  How  had  such  a  woman 
escaped?  He  thought  poorly  of  Australians,  that  they 
could  ever  have  let  her  survive. 

"I'd  swing  for  her,"  he  muttered  savagely,  "if  I 
hadn't  got  other  people  to  think  of." 

What  was  it  he  had  promised  Kythe — to  write  to 
her  father?  How  damned  silly  that  sounded  now. 
Kythe — little  Kythe — Good  God!  The  mere  thought 
of  her,  and  the  memory  of  her  stricken  face,  sent  the 


204    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

blood  rushing  uncontrollably  through  him.  It  would 
be  nothing  to  be  surprised  at,  if  he  were  to  murder 
Teresa! 

What  a  devil  she  was! 

That  woman,  and  that  man,  responsible  for  those 
nice  kids — it  was  like  a  practical  joke  of  the  Creator's. 
Not  much  chance  of  decency,  poor  little  beggars,  if 
the  laws  of  heredity  count  for  anything — unless  they 
skipped  an  influence  here  and  there.  Kythe — little 
Kythe — his  daughter,  too.  How  did  such  a  scoundrel 
come  to  have  such  a  child?  He  roused  himself  with 
a  start  and  found  he  had  nearly  reached  the  Manor 
Farm.  Turning  abruptly  on  his  steps,  he  went  to 
Redlands  to  find  Hugh. 

Hugh,  casual,  stolid,  easy-going,  sat  with  his  feet 
on  the  table,  and  shouted  a  welcome.  After  a  short 
time,  it  dawned  on  him  that  his  brother  was  unnerved, 
and  he  pushed  the  whisky  towards  him  remindingly. 

It  astonished  him,  however,  to  see  how  greedily 
Arthur  swallowed  one  drink  after  another. 

"I  say,"  he  remonstrated.  "Aren't  you  going  it 
rather?  Not  that  I  mind,  but  it's  not  exactly  your 
form.  Anything  up?" 

"Yes.     Came  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"Teresa?" 

"Yes.     And  Desmond." 

"Lord!     Since  when?" 

Arthur  sat  forward,  staring  into  the  fire  as  if  hypno- 
tised. 

"About  fifteen  years,"  he  replied,  slowly.     "Must 


MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN  205 

have  gone  away  together.  He  is  the  father  of  those 
children." 

This  time  Hugh  had  no  expression  to  fill  the  bill. 
He  sat  silent,  and  they  stared  at  each  other. 

"Hugh,  old  man,"  began  Arthur,  "I  was  going  to 
marry  the  little  girl — the  Desmond  girl."  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  say  Kythe's  name.  "It's  the  devil, 
old  chap,  what?" 

Hugh  expressed  sympathy  in  a  queer  way  he  had — 
without  words,  but  with  sounds  and  grunts  that  were 
convincing  if  unusual;  and  both  smoked  on,  occasion- 
ally taking  a  pull  at  their  glasses. 

By  and  by  Hugh  spoke. 

"What  you  going  to  do?" 

"God  knows!"  sighed  Arthur,  in  such  desolation 
that  Hugh  grunted  again  and  drew  his  chair  nearer, 
putting  a  hand  on  the  back  of  his  brother's  chair. 

"How  did  you  find  out?" 

"Spat  it  at  us — Teresa  did — me  and  the  little  girl. 
She  fainted." 

This  time  Hugh's  sounds  of  sympathy  were  of  the 
most  bloodthirsty  character. 

"There's  a  lot  more  to  it,"  announced  Arthur, 
glumly.  "There  are  those  remains,  and  that  fellow 
Johnstone,  and  all  that  yarn.  It's  the  very  devil." 

"So  is  she,"  replied  Hugh.  "Pity  we  didn't  push 
her  overboard  when  she  brought  us  home!" 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  was  his  next 
query.  "Kick  Desmond?  Whip  Teresa?  Get  dam- 
ages out  of  someone — what?" 


206    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Drown  ourselves,  I  should  think,"  said  the  gloomy 
Arthur;  and  once  more  silence  reigned. 
.   "Does  Gran  know?" 

"I  believe  she  has  known  all  the  time." 

Hugh  whistled.    This  indeed  was  a  new  idea. 

Arthur's  distress  would  have  been  even  heavier  had 
he  known  .how  Kythe  was  meeting  the  trouble.  Her 
youth  and  inexperience  naturally  made  the  shock 
greater. 

Flung  in  a  corner  of  the  big  sofa  in  the  playroom 
she  lay  without  sign  of  life  or  consciousness  until 
a  noisy  incursion  of  Lance  and  Guin,  to  fetch  her  over 
to  see  the  Tower  room,  roused  her  to  a  vivid  realisation 
of  the  position. 

These  two,  these  cheery  friends  and  playmates,  they 
were  her  half-brother  and  sister.  She  looked  at  them 
with  new  eyes.  Teresa's  vicious  words  came  back  and 
her  gaze  sought  Guin's  hands — capable,  strong-fingered 
square-tipped  and  clean-skinned.  There  was  a  like- 
ness .  .  .  and  in  horror  she  looked  into  Guin's  face 
to  see  whether  there  was  any  other  likeness. 

Was  it  Lennox,  or  Hubert,  she  was  like? 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter?" 

They  stood,  arrested  by  her  ghastly  face. 

Then  she  cried.  Cried  stormily,  unrestrainedly,  at 
the  end  of  her  resources.  She  had  no  strength  left 
for  control  or  reticence.  May  came,  and  Hero  came, 
and  finally  Mr.  Desmond  came,  and  through  the  gar- 
den came  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raymond,  to  see  if  anyone 
would  come  home  to  dinner  with  them.  But  their 
presence  made  no  difference.  She  cried  on, 


MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN  207 

"She  is  hysterical,"  said  Aunt  Hermione,  at  last. 
"Really,  David,  I  think  she  would  be  the  better  for 
a  shake!" 

"Come,  Kythe,"  said  Mr.  Desmond,  not  unkindly, 
"what  is  the  trouble?  Don't  you  think  you  could 
tell  us?" 

And  he  laid  a  firm  hand  on  her  shoulder,  giving 
her  ever  such  a  mild  shake,  though  not  in  any  way  in 
rebuke.  Indeed,  he  was  sorely  troubled  himself, 
guessing  at  something  of  the  cause  of  her  outbreak. 
He  knew  little  of  his  youngest  daughter's  strange  na- 
ture. Her  dislike  of  him  had  been  cordially  recipro- 
cated. He  resented  her  existence,  her  critical,  con- 
demning eyes,  her  aloof  and  alien  ways;  and  most  of 
all  he  resented  that  she  should  be  the  one  to  have  dis- 
covered part  of  his  secret.  But  he  could  not  be  deaf 
and  blind  to  her  distress,  and  take  no  part  in  such  a 
scene  in  his  own  house  and  family. 

Blind  passion  seized  on  Kythe,  at  his  touch.  She 
flung  his  hand  furiously  from  her,  shrinking  into  the 
corner  of  the  sofa,  gasping  with  sobs,  trembling  and 
quivering,  but  fighting  for  breath  to  tell  him,  to  tell 
them,  to  tell  everybody  .  .  . 

"It  is  him,"  she  cried.  "Him;  how  dare  he  touch 
me?  Aunt  Hermie,  where  is  Guin?  Guin?  Lance?" 

The  two  had  gone  outside,  to  leave  their  elders  in 
control  of  the  situation.  They  came  back  on  hearing 
her  call. 

"Lance,"  cried  Kythe,  struggling  to  calm  her  voice. 
"Didn't  you  say  that  your  mother  said  Guin  had  hands 
like  your  father?" 


208    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Yes,"  answered  Lance,  curtly.  He  was  taken 
aback. 

"Hold  out  your  hands,  Guin." 

She  could  not  prevent  her  voice  quavering  into  a 
falsetto. 

Puzzled,  Guin  held  her  hands  out,  looking  from  them 
to  Kythe,  and  then  Mr.  Desmond,  all  at  sea. 

"Look  at  them,"  said  Kythe,  hysterically,  her  voice 
trembling  and  breaking  again.  "And  look  at  his." 

She  seized  her  father's  wrist  and  put  the  two  hands 
together,  looking  round  at  them  all  defiantly. 

A  dark  flush  spread  over  Mr.  Desmond's  face.  Of 
all  things,  somehow,  he  had  least  expected  this. 
Strangely  enough,  he  did  not  look  at  any  of  his  own 
family,  but  at  the  boy  whose  wide,  grave  eyes  showed 
that  he  had  grasped  the  idea  so  crudely  presented  to 
him,  and  understood. 

It  was  Mr.  Raymond  who  cut  the  dreadful  scene 
short. 

"Take  David  into  the  study,"  he  said,  low  and  stern, 
to  his  wife.  "Lance,  will  you  take  your  sister  home, 
and  give  me  your  word  not  to  speak  about  this  until  I 
come  over  and  see  you?" 

Lance  hesitated,  then  beckoned  with  his  head  and 
chin  to  Guin,  who,  hopelessly  bewildered,  went  away 
with  him. 

"Go  to  your  mother,  girls,"  said  Mr.  Raymond 
"and  see  that  you  don't  say  anything  to  worry  her. 
Now,  Kythe,  tell  me  what  made  you  do  this  wicked, 
this  abominable  thing." 


MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN  209 

He  sat  beside  her,  angling  for  her  confidence,  in 
vain,  for  some  time.  Until  some  chance  word  touched 
her  sore  heart,  and  melted  a  little  of  the  icy  anger 
she  felt  towards  all  of  them. 

"It  was  Mrs.  Gervase  told  it,"  she  said,  so  suddenly 
that  he  was  startled.  "You  don't  know,  but  Father 
knows,  that  I  know " 

She  broke  off,  and  he  waited. 

"Father  knows  that  Major  Gervase  wants  to  marry 
me.  We  were  in  the  garden,  near  the  door  in  the 
wall,  and  we  heard  Father  come  in.  He  was  out,  meet- 
ing Mrs.  Gervase.  He  was  angry,  and  we  came  in 
with  him,  and  he  and  Major  Gervase  quarrelled.  That 
was  the  night  mother  was  ill. 

"To-day  I  was  sitting  with  Major  Gervase,  and  she 
— Guin's  mother — heard  us  say  she  would  soon  be 
gone,  because  Lady  Katherine  would  not  have  her. 
Then  she  told  us — about  Guin's  hands,  and  who  her 
father  was;  and  I  was  ill.  I'll  kill  Father  if  he  ever 
touches  me  ...  touches  me  again.  He  was  with 
her  all  those  years. 

"He  was  with  her  all  those  years,  and  then  came 
back;  came  back  to  us  and  to  mother,  and  to  live 
here!  I  hate  him,  so  that  I  want  to  kill  him.  It  is 
no  use  telling  me  it  is  wicked;  I  don't  care,  I  can  never 
be  so  wicked  as  he  is." 

In  ungirl-like  quiet,  with  a  vindictiveness  in  odd 
contrast  to  her  violent  tears,  and  so  bitter  and  cold- 
drawn  that  the  Rector  felt  chilled,  she  brought  out 
her  tale  unadorned.  Each  phrase  of  it  astounded  him 


210    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

more  and  more.  The  knowledge  that  this  child  had 
a  serious  love  affair  with  Major  Gervase,  struck  him 
dumb. 

Enjoining  her  to  wait  until  he  came  for  her,  the 
Rector  went  to  find  his  brother-in-law. 

"Have  you  anything  to  tell  us,  David?  Can't  you 
tell  us,  now  that  this  has  been  burst  on  us,  something 
that  will  make  it  less  dreadful?" 

Mr.  Desmond  lifted  a  hunted  face. 

"Is  there  anything  more  for  you  to  know?" 

"Oh,  yes,  David,"  cried  his  sister.  "Yes.  Yes.  I 
have  known  you  all  your  life;  we  were  in  the  nursery 
together,  you  and  I  and  Harry,  and  nothing  can  wipe 
out  that.  There  is  no  knowledge  like  that  knowledge; 
and  I  know — yes,  I  have  been  furious  with  you,  and  I 
have  condemned  you,  and  been  ashamed  about  you; 
but  now  that  I  hear  this  terrible  thing,  I  know  that  it 
was  not  all  your  doing.  There  is  something  you  could 
say,  something  we  would  all  believe,  that  would  make  it 
better.  Or,  at  least,  not  so  utterly  awful.  I  do  believe 
that,  David;  and  so  does  Charlie;  and  you  know — we 
can't  tell  you  half  so  well  as  you  know — that  Honoria 
would  believe  it  without  being  told!  Tell  us,  David. 
We  have  earned  the  right  to  know,  with  all  this  sor- 
row." 

Mr.  Desmond  sat,  on  his  desk  chair,  leaning  for- 
ward with  one  arm  over  his  knee,  looking  into  vacancy, 
one  hand  feeling  for  the  scar  among  his  thick  shock  of 
hair.  There  was  something  faintly  pathetic  about  the 
seeking  fingers.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  of  his 
sister's  words,  but  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  was  more 


MR.  DESMOND'S  CHILDREN  211 

vivid  to  him  than  her  appeal.  There  was  something 
like  a  film  panorama,  that  seemed  to  be  passing  before 
him  over  that  pattern  of  the  carpet — a  panorama  of 
the  strange  things  his  memory  contained.  When  he 
lifted  his  eyes,  with  an  effort,  and  wrenched  his  mind 
back  to  his  sister,  he  could  not  remember  what  in  the 
world  it  was  she  had  said  to  him. 

"Oh.  Ah,  yes,"  he  murmured,  absently.  "Of 
course.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hermie.  What  were  you 
saying?" 

And  he  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 

There  it  was.  The  garden  with  the  fatal  door,  out 
of  which  he  had  gone  to  his  doom.  The  years  that 
the  locust  had  eaten,  the  hard,  secret  years  of  ban- 
ishment and  toil,  the  personal  degradation,  the  loss,  the 
tangling  intrigue — it  began  and  ended  with  that  door, 
out  of  which  he  had  stepped  so  harmlessly,  in  at  which 
he  had  entered  to  find  his  daughter  in  the  arms  of 
Teresa's  brother.  He  lost  himself  in  the  mazes  of  the 
disaster  which  had  overtaken  him. 

He  turned  with  a  start,  to  see  Mrs.  Raymond  cry- 
ing, and  her  husband  trying  to  soothe  her.  She  cried 
bitterly  and  hopelessly;  and  Raymond  cast  a  glance, 
the  reverse  of  friendly,  at  his  brother-in-law.  Des- 
mond left  the  window. 

"If  you  are  willing,"  he  said,  still  with  that  mazed 
and  speculative  look  on  him,  "I  will  come  home  with 
you  now,  if  you  will  give  me  some  dinner,  and  tell  you 
how  it  was.  Wait  a  minute,  will  you,  while  I  go 
and  tell  Honoria.  Don't  cry,  Hermie." 

He  seemed  to  brush  something  away  from  before 


212    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

his  face,  as  he  went,  rather  blindly,  towards  the  door. 

Raymond  watched  him  go,  and  urged  his  wife  to 
keep  herself  in  hand.  Now  that  the  shameful  tale — 
so  much  more  shameful  than  they  had  thought — was 
to  be  told,  he  felt  a  strong  reluctance  to  hear  it,  or  to 
look  his  old  friend  in  the  face  while  he  told  it. 

As  Desmond  came  down  the  stairs  again,  Mr.  Ray- 
mond remembered  that  he  had  told  Kythe  to  wait 
for  him. 

"One  minute!"  he  called  to  Desmond,  and  hurried 
down  to  the  playroom. 

The  room  was  empty  and  Kythe  nowhere  to  be 
found. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EXPLORERS  AND  EXCAVATORS 

LANCE  took  his  astonished  little  sister  away,  gripping 
her  arm  as  if  he  were  saving  her  from  some  great 
danger.  He  was  not  shocked,  only  troubled.  The 
revelation  was  the  kind  of  thing  he  knew,  instinctively 
as  well  as  out  of  past  experience,  might  be  expected 
of  the  evil  woman  who  was  their  mother.  Of  Mr. 
Desmond  he  had  never  had  much  opinion,  having  un- 
consciously imbibed  the  view  prevailing  about  him 
among  his  own  children. 

It  had  not  yet  struck  him  that  those  children  were 
his  half-brothers  and  sisters.  His  mind  had  not  trav- 
elled further  than  his  relation  to  their  father,  and 
that  father's  shameful  relation  to  his  mother.  A  fur- 
ious anger  surged  in  him  that  his  mother  had  given 
him  this  man  of  all  men  for  a  father. 

Lance  did  not  want  Guin  to  think  about  it  at  all. 
At  the  great  day-school  for  which  Fairlands  was  fa- 
mous, he  was  known  as  Daddy,  because  of  his  un- 
faltering care  for  his  sister.  He  called  for  her  every 
day,  and  if  not  able  to  take  her  home,  saw  her  go  in 
the  company  of  some  other  girl  or  girls.  No  boyish 
preoccupations  had  ever  come  between  them;  and  he 

213 


214    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

was  strong  enough,  and  intellectually  independent 
enough  to  hold  his  views,  stand  up  for  them,  and 
make  them  respected. 

All  the  Desmond  and  Gervase  boys  went  to  that 
school.  They  had  jointly  established  a  great  record 
there.  All  the  girls  went  to  the  "Lodgeries,"  as  Fair- 
lands  Lodge  girls'  school  was  called.  It  had  fine  tradi- 
tions also,  and  the  Desmond  girls  had  added  to  its  roll 
of  honour.  It  was  there  also  that  Teresa  had  dis- 
tinguished herself  in  her  own  peculiar  way. 

Lance  felt  a  raging  anger,  with  his  mother,  Des- 
mond, and  Kythe.  Poor  little  Guin — how  scared  and 
puzzled  she  looked!  His  boy's  nature  did  not  allow 
of  his  gauging  the  torment  of  soul  Kythe  had  gone 
through;  without  an  ounce  of  sympathy,  he  called  her, 
in  his  mind,  a  little  devil,  and  thought  she  was  just 
a  right  daughter  for  Mr.  Desmond. 

"I  hope  she'll  rub  it  into  him,  anyhow!"  he  thought, 
in  angry  consolation. 

Lance  was  full  of  the  liveliest  excitement  about  hav- 
ing the  Tower  room  for  their  own;  and  it  was  to  that 
haven  he  escorted  Guin,  as  the  likeliest  spot  in  which 
to  distract  her  thoughts  from  the  row  that  Kythe  had 
made.  They  were  still  altering  and  decorating  it,  a 
task  at  which  Gum's  manual  dexterity  was  of  value; 
and  they  had  dragged  Gervase  out  again  and  again  to 
make  him  admire,  instruct,  or  advise.  It  was  to  please 
their  fastidious  taste  that  he  had  ordered  the  removal 
of  the  ugly  grate  which  had  been  good  enough  for 
Uncle  Hugh;  but  they  were  not  satisfied  yet. 

"Let's  go  and  finish  the  grate,"  said  Lance  insinu- 


EXPLORERS  AND  EXCAVATORS       215 

atingly;  and  Guin  responded  handsomely,  getting  her 
hand  into  his  and  making  him  run  to  the  garden  door. 

They  had  filled  in  the  fireplace  with  bricks  and  tiles 
"lifted"  from  the  stable  and  the  greenhouses;  but  there 
was  still  a  something  lacking. 

Then  Guin,  forgetting  her  over-discussed  hands  and 
her  dear  friend's  queer  behaviour,  and  the  general 
"beastliness"  of  everything,  had  an  inspiration. 

"Lance!  Two  of  those  lovely  paving  blocks  from 
the  cellar.  Could  we  get  them  up,  do  you  think? 
They  would  just  do!" 

Down  they  went  to  prospect.  They  had  already  re- 
moved a  slab  thence  to  make  into  a  hearthstone.  It 
had  the  Gervase  arms  on  it  and  belonged  to  the  cellar 
threshold.  Adams  had  raised  a  storm  about  its  re- 
moval and  threatened  to  tell  Lady  Katherine. 

"We  can  take  them  from  that  corner,  in  the  angle," 
she  whispered,  full  of  excitement.  "Then  we  can  pile 
in  rubbish  and  stuff  and  no  one  will  see,  so  there  won't 
be  a  row  like  there  was  over  the  other  one." 

So  they  betook  themselves  to  the  task,  with  various 
implements  of  vandalism,  and  toiled  with  a  vigour 
worthy  of  a  better  cause  at  the  solid  floor. 

Lance  succeeded  in  prizing  up,  with  heated,  strug- 
gling energy,  one  stone  of  unsuspected  dimensions  so 
far  as  depth  was  concerned;  and  was  proceeding  with 
the  far  easier  task  of  dislodging  its  already  loosened 
neighbour,  when  Guin  said,  with  intense  emphasis, 

"Look  here,  Lance!" 

The  solid  masonry  of  the  massive  walls  was  hand- 
somely interrupted  at  intervals  by  strips  of  heavy 


216    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

woodwork  elaborately  if  roughly  carven.  These  lines 
of  carving  reached  up  into  the  darkness  to  the  roof  of 
the  cellar. 

"Couldn't  we  get  this  off  and  put  it  in  our  room?" 
she  asked.     "Then  it  could  be  seen.     There  are  all 
sorts  of  jolly  things  on  it — here  are  some  of  our  oak- 
leaves,  and  here  is  the  crown  and  the  helmet;   and 
there  are  some  lions  and  things  besides." 
She  traced  the  designs  with  her  deft  fingers. 
"Acorns,  as   well   as   oak-leaves,"    she   continued. 
"Lance,  they  are  jolly!" 

"How  is  it  fastened  on?"  asked  Lance,  peering 
at  the  solid  structure,  and  leaving  the  stones  with  some 
relief. 

Guin  felt  along  one  strip,  he  peered  along  another. 
"I  can't  see  how  it  is  fastened,"  he  grumbled. 

"Have  you  your  knife?"  asked  Guin,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence.  Her  attention  was  concentrated  on 
something  she  had  found  in  the  carving. 

Lance  produced  a  complicated  arrangement  of  many 
devices,  from  which  she  selected  a  sharp-pointed  punch. 
With  it  she  extracted  from  a  leaf  which  she  had  been 
touching  with  her  clever  finger-tips,  a  shaped  piece  of 
cork.  The  space  from  which  she  slipped  it  out  was 
a  keyhole. 

"I  could  feel  it  had  been  picked  out  before,"  she  ex- 
claimed gleefully;  "and  that  it  was  different  from  the 
wood.  I  wonder  where  its  key  is?" 

The  flags  were  returned  to  their  place  with  desperate 
haste,  and  dusted  over  with  rubbish  to  hide  all  signs 
of  depredation.  Then  Lance  started  for  the  smithy, 


EXPLORERS  AND  EXCAVATORS        217 

whence  he  returned  with  a  powerful  picklock,  which 
the  amused  functionary  there  presiding  selected  and 
committed  to  his  care. 

The  lock  resisted  their  unskilled  attack  for  a  long 
time;  then  suddenly  and  unaccountably  yielded.  It 
had  apparently  been  well  oiled  at  no  very  distant 
date,  and  turned  easily  and  noiselessly.  A  door 
opened  two  or  three  inches,  parting  all  down  the  mid- 
dle of  one  strip  of  carving. 

A  vigorous  push  sent  it  slowly  swinging  back,  and 
a  gush  of  stale  air  came  out,  making  them  shrink  and 
retreat.  There  was  a  dark  void  before  them,  full  of 
mysterious  possibilities. 

"Golly!"  said  Lance.  "We  have  found  it  this 
time!" 

Some  of  the  newspaper  in  which  their  possessions 
had  been  wrapped  was  produced  from  the  room  up- 
stairs, and  twisted  into  torches  to  test  the  air.  The 
unmatchable  joy  of  the  explorer  and  adventurer  was 
theirs,  with  the  added  delight  of  freedom  from  the 
supervision  of  grown-ups. 

The  paper  torches  burned  flickeringly  and  revealed 
three  deep  steps  into  an  irregularly-shaped  room,  with 
a  door  at  the  further  end.  There  was  a  table,  some 
books,  crockery,  chairs,  camp-bed  and  rugs,  and  odd 
litter.  It  had  plainly  been  lived  in.  A  good  deal  of 
usable  stuff,  in  the  shape  of  candles,  a  paraffin  lamp, 
matches,  soap,  arid  towels,  rugs  and  pillows,  lay  about 
in  untidy  confusion.  Two  of  the  candles  they  lit  at 
once. 

They  tip-toed  about,  frightened  as  well  as  excited. 


218    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

At  any  moment  some  occupant  of  the  room  might  ap- 
pear and  demand  their  right  to  intrude.  Lance  took 
the  precaution  of  pushing  the  door  back  to  its  widest 
limit  and  weighting  it  with  one  of  the  heavy  chairs,  be- 
sides putting  a  large  log  of  wood  where  it  would  prevent 
the  door  from  shutting-to  if  slammed. 

"It  wouldn't  do  to  get  trapped  here,"  he  remarked. 

Then  they  opened  the  further  door.  It  gave  on  to 
a  short  flight  of  steps. 

Lighting  paper  torches,  and  holding  their  flame  down- 
wards until  they  flared,  they  advanced  step  by  step. 
Lance's  torch  burnt  low,  and  he  paused  to  flare  it  up 
again.  Guin  went  down  two  or  three  more  steps. 

Lance  raised  his  torch  again;  and  found  himself 
looking  into  the  terrified  face  of  his  sister. 

"Lance!     Lance!" 

She  was  gasping,  pressing  him  back.  They  fled  up 
the  steps  to  the  room  they  had  left.  Guin  shut  the 
door  behind  them  and  jammed  a  chair  against  it. 
Lance  clutched  one  of  her  arms  and  looked  in  her  face 
in  silent  query. 

"It's  dead,"  she  whispered,  hoarsely.  "A  woman. 
Dead.  Lying  there " 

Feverishly  they  removed  the  log  from  the  outer 
doorway  and  dragged  the  door  after  them,  after 
trampling  out  their  torches  and  extinguishing  some  of 
the  candles.  With  beating  hearts  they  repaired  to  the 
garden,  and  took  stock  of  the  situation. 

"Tell  Uncle  Arthur,"  was  the  unanimous  decision. 

Gervase,  coming  into  his  room  to  dress  for  dinner, 
found  it  in  possession.  Astride  of  the  bed-rail  sat 


EXPLORERS  AND  EXCAVATORS        219 

Lance,  with  face  rather  whiter  than  usual;  and  lean- 
ing against  him  holding  on  to  his  jacket  was  a  very 
washed-out  version  of  Guin.  They  started  up  with 
the  utmost  relief,  and  shouted  a  welcome  that  was  more 
tearful  than  gay. 

"What's  up?"  asked  Gervase,  noting  the  signs  of 
emotion  at  a  glance. 

"A  dead  woman?  How  did  you  know  she  was 
dead?"  he  asked  abruptly,  when  the  startling  tale  had 
been  blurted  out.  The  first  thing  that  occurred  to  him 
was  that  the  woman  might  possibly  be  saved. 

"She  was — it  was — there  was  bones,"  faltered  Guin, 
who  had  never  had  harder  work  not  to  cry.  Lance 
kept  tight  hold  of  her  arm,  and  pinched  it  to  agony  in 
his  attempts  to  be  comforting.  He,  too,  was  afraid  of 
her  crying,  because  he  might  have  followed  suit. 

Gervase  refrained  from  further  questions,  seeing 
the  state  they  were  in.  Possessing  himself  of  the 
implement  with  which  the  lock  had  been  turned,  the 
piece  of  cork  that  Guin  had  extracted  from  the  key- 
hole, and  enough  information  to  locate  the  secret 
door,  he  rang  to  hurry  dinner  on,  sent  a  message  to 
Lady  Katherine,  and  arranged  for  one  of  the  maids, 
who  was  a  friendly  and  reliable  creature,  to  bring  her 
sewing  to  the  window-place  outside  the  children's  bed- 
rooms so  that  they  should  not  be  alone.  This  gave 
them  great  comfort,  though  neither  of  them  would  have 
condescended  to  mention  it. 

After  rushing  through  his  dinner,  Gervase  went  to 
the  police-station.  There  he  found,  unexpectedly, 
Amos  Johnstone  and  Mr.  Talbot. 


220    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

A  stiff  greeting  was  exchanged,  and  Gervase  noticed 
the  hectic  excitement  of  little  Amos.  His  shrivelled 
face  was  flaming. 

"Thomas,"  said  Gervase,  ostentatiously  avoiding 
intercourse  with  Mr.  Talbot,  "I  want  you  to  come  with 
me  to  The  Domain.  A  discovery  has  been  made  there 
by  my  nephew  and  niece  that  will  have  to  be  investi- 
gated, and  I  do  not  think  we  had  better  lose  any  time." 

Thomas  was  not  minded  to  bandy  words  with  the 
young  Squire,  and  obediently  proceeded  to  put  on  his 
helmet  and  arm  himself  with  note-book,  handcuffs, 
and  other  paraphernalia  of  his  office.  But  when  he 
looked  deprecatingly  at  Mr.  Talbot  that  gentleman  in- 
tervened. 

"I  think  Major  Gervase  had  better  know  what  has 
happened,"  he  observed.  "I  do  not  know  the  nature 
of  your  discovery,  Major  Gervase,  but  a  discovery 
has  also  been  made  at  the  Homestead  Farm  this  after- 
noon. Johnstone  has  had  men  at  work  there  for  some 
days,  clearing  and  searching.  To-day  they  found  some 
keys — one  a  large  key  with  the  helmet  and  crown  of 
the  Gervases — which  nobody  in  this  place  could  fail 
to  recognise  as  similar  to  the  collection  of  antique  keys 
at  The  Domain.  I  think  you  will  see  how  greatly  that 
increases  Amos  Johnstone's  supposition  that  the  mur- 
der of  the  unknown  man,  and  the  disappearance  of  his 
son,  have  some  connection  with  your — er — family's 
affairs." 

The  slow,  painstaking,  courteous  statement  found  its 
way  to  the  recesses  of  Gervase's  understanding.  He 
could  not  fail  to  recognise  the  stern  threat  behind  Mr. 


EXPLORERS  AND  EXCAVATORS        221 

Talbot's  irreproachable  manner,  nor  to  see  how  damn- 
ingly  significant  the  find  was.  And  there  was  the  body 
found  by  the  children ! 

Lance  had  said  the  lock  he  picked  had  been  oiled, 
quite  recently.  By  whom — Teresa?  Obviously.  It 
hit  him  in  the  face,  now  he  thought  of  it.  The  key  to 
the  secret  door  would  no  doubt  be  in  her  possession. 

What  share  had  that  evil  woman  in  the  death  of 
these  two  people,  the  man  found  buried  at  the  Home- 
stead Farm,  and  the  woman  lying  unburied  in  the 
underground  room? 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WILLIE   JOHNSTONE 

GERVASE  stared  stupidly  at  Mr.  Talbot.  The  words 
and  ideas  ran  round  and  round  in  a  meaningless  hunt 
after  each  other.  He  felt  dizzy. 

Then  he  heard  Mr.  Talbot  say,  more  kindly, 

"Sit  down  a  minute.  Don't  try  to  talk,"  and  he 
subsided  into  a  chair  and  drank  some  cold  water. 

"You  had  better  come  with  us,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Tal- 
bot, when  he  had  recovered.  "The  children — poor 
little  beggars,  they  are  sick  with  fright — have  found  the 
body  of  a  woman  in  the  cellar  of  the  Old  Tower." 

He  made  no  objection  to  Amos  Johnstone  accom- 
panying them.  The  little  man  trotted  behind  with 
Constable  Thomas,  stumbling  with  excitement;  while 
Gervase  and  Talbot  walked  ahead  with  hurrying 
strides.  As  they  went,  Gervase  gave  the  magistrate 
all  the  information  he  possessed,  which  was  little. 

The  cellar  door  opened  easily,  the  lock  being  of 
the  very  simplest  construction ;  and  with  a  good  supply 
of  lights,  they  entered  the  room  and  opened  the  further 
door. 

At  the  foot  of  twelve  steps,  stretched  lengthways 
beside  the  wall,  lay  the  skeleton  of  which  Guin  had 

222 


WILLIE  JOHNSTONE  223 

caught  sight.  There  were  tattered  remains  of  female 
clothing  looking  like  a  skirt  and  an  evening  cloak. 
There  were  no  boots;  the  bones  of  the  feet,  fallen  to 
pieces,  lay  uncovered.  The  skull  had  rolled  a  little 
apart  from  the  neck. 

"What  a  gruesome  sight,"  said  Mr.  Talbot. 
"That  poor  little  girl — shocking  for  her,  Gervase." 

"Dreadful,"  exclaimed  Gervase.  "And  she  looked 
most  awfully  broken  up." 

They  found  themselves  getting  quite  friendly  again. 

The  stair  led,  as  Gervase  anticipated,  to  a  long 
passage,  paved  and  masoned,  that  rose  and  dipped 
and  turned  and  twisted,  and  ended  in  a  frowning 
door.  The  door  had  on  its  carven  panels  the  Gervase 
insignia — helmet,  crown,  and  oak-leaves. 

"Archseologically,"  said  Mr.  Talbot,  "an  enchanting 
discovery;  but  I  am  afraid,  Gervase,  this  will  spell 
serious  trouble." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Gervase,  gloomily.  "Well,  it 
has  got  to  be  faced  now.  I  wonder  where  this  comes 
out " 

"That  key,  sir,"  observed  Constable  Thomas,  "the 
one  found  at  the  Homestead;  it  might  fit  one  of  these 
doors — this  one  or  the  one  further  back." 

The  clothes,  fragments  of  which  were  examined, 
must  have  been  of  rich  and  handsome  texture.  A 
circumstance  that  Constable  Thomas  noticed,  with 
trained  acutenessj  was  curious.  They  were  not 
fastened,  in  any  place,  by  the  hooks  or  buttons  with 
which  they  were  furnished. 

"All  unfastened,"  he  noted  carefully. 


224    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

He  also  noted  something  else. 

There  was  no  female  underclothing.  The  corpse 
had  been  wearing  a  man's  vest  and  pants. 

In  the  underground  room,  close  to  the  cellar  en- 
trance, was  found  a  heavy  iron  bar,  that  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  wrenched  from  a  furnace.  It  was  thickly 
rusted.  And  in  a  corner  made  by  the  angle  of  the  three 
steps,  lay  a  hammer,  thick  with  dust  and  fluff. 

Careful  note  was  made  of  the  position  of  the  corpse, 
its  surroundings,  and  the  contents  of  the  room.  The 
remains,  wrapped  in  blankets,  were  removed  to  the 
workhouse  infirmary,  where  Dr.  Willett  hurried  with 
eager  curiosity,  the  moment  information  was  got 
through  to  him.  The  remnants  of  clothing  were  col- 
lected for  close  examination. 

Mr.  Talbot  gave  some  instruction  in  an  undertone 
to  Constable  Thomas,  and  then,  without  invitation, 
accompanied  Gervase  home.  He  sat  till  late,  Gervase 
getting  more  and  more  surprised  at  the  visitation. 

"I  told  Thomas  to  bring  the  result  of  the  investiga- 
tion here,"  remarked  Mr.  Talbot,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"You  don't  mind  my  staying,  do  you?  Of  course  there 
will  only  be  a  superficial  examination;  but  there  might 
be  something  we  ought  to  talk  over." 

Suddenly  Gervase  understood.  He  turned  his 
flushed  face  to  the  shadow  and  cursed  Teresa  deep, 
if  not  loud. 

That  disturbing  soul  had  lurked  about  furtively  all 
the  evening,  for  some  purpose  of  her  own,  plainly 
illicit.  She  had  seen  the  expedition  to  the  cellar  and 


WILLIE  JOHNSTONE  225 

the  removal  of  the  body;  and  she  sped,  cat-like,  up  the 
lane. 

No  sound  broke  the  silence.  There  were  no  foot- 
steps save  her  own  in  the  lane,  no  voices  the  other 
side  of  the  wall. 

In  growing  audacity,  she  went  to  the  front  door. 

Mr.  Desmond  was  not  at  home.  He  was  dining  at 
the  Rectory. 

To  the  Rectory  she  went. 

Mr.  Desmond  came  out  to  the  door.  She  spoke, 
rapid  and  low,  giving  him  the  news. 

In  silence  he  stared  at  her  and  heard  her  to  the  end. 
Then  he  drew  himself  up  and  took  a  deep  breath. 

"You  have  done  your  worst,"  he  said,  curtly.  "Do 
the  rest;  it  will  be  better  than  this.  It  is  out  of  your 
hands  now." 

Mrs.  Raymond,  coming  out  to  ask  whether  his  caller 
would  not  come  in  for  a  moment,  heard  him  say  it. 
She  thought  he  said  it  almost  triumphantly.  He  shut 
out  Teresa's  evil  smile  with  a  slam  of  the  door,  and  led 
his  sister  back  to  the  sitting-room. 

Teresa  took  herself  home,  hardly  knowing  whether 
she  felt  angry  or  interested.  It  was  a  good  game. 
Exciting.  It  had  reached  a  critical  point. 

She  joined  her  brother  and  Talbot  in  the  smoking- 
room,  without  any  sort  of  embarrassment.  Smoking 
her  little  Spanish  cigars,  drinking  bigger  tots  of  whisky 
than  either  of  the  men,  telling  amazing  tales  of  auda- 
cious doings  in  phrases  more  audacious  still,  she  loung- 
ed on  the  sofa  with  one  foot  thrown  over  the  arm,  her 


226    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

head  back,  her  wide  happy  smile  and  beautiful  teeth  in 
astonishing  contrast  to  her  manner  and  speech.  Mr. 
Talbot  thought  many  things,  none  of  which  he  said. 
Gervase  felt  sick  with  shame  and  anger. 

The  seance  was  broken  by  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Willett 
and  Constable  Thomas,  the  last-named  breathing  hard 
and  standing  with  his  helmet  in  his  hand  near  the  door. 

Teresa  half  rose,  a  sudden  feeling  of  uneasiness 
coming  over  her. 

Gervase  rose;  so  did  Mr.  Talbot. 

"I  am  afraid  our  errand  is  a  most  unpleasant  one, 
Gervase,"  said  Dr.  Willett,  gravely.  "The  body  found 
in  your  Tower  premises  is  that  of  a  man,  not  a  woman; 
and  Amos  Johnstone  identifies  it  as  his  missing  son." 

"Dear,  dear,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Talbot.  "That  is 
tragic,  is  it  not?  Yet  it  is  what  we  have  all  antici- 
pated in  a  way,  I  am  afraid.  I  confess  I  could  not 
make  out  what  woman  it  could  possibly  be.  Will  you 
ask  your  sister,  Major  Gervase,  to  give  us  some  ex- 
planation of  this  sad  business?" 

They  all  turned  to  Teresa. 

"/  have  nothing  to  tell!"  answered  Teresa,  lightly. 
"What  has  it  got  to  do  with  me?" 

"A  good  deal,  I  am  afraid,  if  what  the  man's  father 
says  is  true.  Come,  Mrs.  Gervase,  do  you  not  think 
you  had  better  be  frank  with  us?" 

Teresa  broke  into  a  peal  of  insolent  laughter. 

"Frank;  with  you,  you  poor  innocents?  What  a 
delicious  proposition." 

"Then  I  am  afraid  we  have  no  alternative  but  to 
place  you  under  detention." 


WILLIE  JOHNSTONE  227 

"Me?" 

Her  astonishment  and  dismay  were  so  unaffected  as 
to  be  almost  comic.  The  position  was  one  for  which 
she  was  palpably  so  unprepared,  that  they  did  not  need 
any  assurance  of  her  sincerity.  She  was  utterly  non- 
plussed, and  they  saw  it. 

"I  do  not  want  to  take  Mrs.  Gervase  to — away," 
began  Mr.  Talbot  to  Gervase;  "but  I  must  have  some 
arrangement  made  which  will  ensure  that  she  does 
not — er — evade  the  enquiry " 

"Send  for  Mr.  Desmond,"  broke  in  Teresa,  curtly. 

"Mr.  Desmond!" 

They  were  all  taken  aback  now.  This  was  a  com- 
plication indeed.  And  the  first  thought  that  came 
most  unwelcomely,  into  Mr.  Talbot's  mind,  was,  what 
a  triumph  for  Lord  Gotto! 

"Mr.  Desmond  is  dining  at  the  Rectory,"  she  con- 
tinued. Her  wits  never  played  her  false  and  she  saw 
her  danger,  acting  promptly  and  shrewdly.  Get  in  her 
accusation  first,  or  she  would  be  "in  the  soup." 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  there  was  another  ring  at  the 
Rectory  bell,  and  another  caller  for  Mr.  Desmond. 
This  one  came  into  the  house,  and  appeared,  without 
being  announced,  at  the  drawing-room  door. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Desmond,  sir,"  said  the 
officer,  "and  yours,  sir,"  to  the  Rector,  "and  your 
lady's.  You  are,  wanted,  sir,  if  you  would  be  good 
enough  to  step  over,  at  The  Domain.  Mr.  Talbot 
has  asked  me  to  come  over  to  fetch  you,  sir." 

"Suppose  I  can't  come,"  said  Mr.  Desmond,  resent- 
fully. 


228    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Constable  Thomas  coughed  behind  his  hand  and 
looked  uncomfortable. 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  sir,  if  I  was  you.  Reely,  I 
wouldn't.  They  wouldn't  a-sent  me,  sir,  not  without 
good  reason.  Can  you  get  your  coatanat,  sir,  without 
going  upstairs?  I  think  as  how  you'd  better,  not  mean- 
ing any  offence,  sir,  nor  yet  to  the  Rector.  You  un- 
derstand that  dooty,  it's  dooty;  and  that's  what  it 
is,  so  to  speak." 

"Will  you  go  up  to  the  house,  Hermie,  and  tell  Hon- 
oria,  if  it  becomes  necessary?" 

His  voice  was  hard  and  had  that  quality,  that  of 
late  had  died  out,  of  brutal,  unsparing  authority. 

He  put  on  hat  and  coat,  and  went  with  Thomas 
without  another  word.  The  Rector  escorted  his  wife 
to  The  Meadows,  then  started  for  The  Domain,  as 
fast  as  his  feet  would  take  him. 

It  was  a  strange  scene  on  which  he  entered.  His 
arrival  was  hardly  noticed;  Gervase  gave  him  a  brief 
glance  and  a  nod;  Constable  Thomas  moved  aside  to 
let  him  pass.  Desmond,  Talbot,  and  Teresa  spared 
him  no  attention  at  all. 

The  sofa  made  a  sort  of  barrier,  sideways,  before 
the  fireplace  and  hearth.  Talbot,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  hearth,  pipe  in  hand;  Dr.  Willett,  his 
hand  on  Gervase's  arm,  holding  him  back;  Constable 
Thomas  guarding  the  door,  and  Desmond,  a  little  ahead 
of  him,  the  further  side  of  the  sofa;  all  had  their  eyes 
fixed  on  Teresa.  With  one  foot  on  the  sofa,  she  pointed 
at  Mr.  Desmond  with  her  supple,  dramatic  fingers, 


WILLIE  JOHNSTONE  229 

hurling  at  him  the  charge  she  had  so  long  held  over 
his  head. 

"Why  else  do  you  suppose  he  'disappeared'?"  she 
asked,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  at  the  same  time  sup- 
plies the  answer. 

"There  seems  to  be  a  slight  absence  of  motive/' 
suggested  Mr.  Talbot,  mildly. 

"Motive?  He  was  jealous  of  the  market-gardener 
boy.  Not  without  some — though  not  sufficient — rea- 
son. If  you  remember,  Arthur,  it  was  because  of  a 
market  man  that  I  was  expelled  from  school." 

An  expression  that  broke  from  Dr.  Willett  made  her 
turn  to  him  with  an  evil  smile. 

.     "Just  a  minute  ago  you  were  asking  for  frankness," 
she  gibed.     "Do  you  like  it?" 

"Aren't  you  going  to  say  anything,  Desmond?"  asked 
Gervase.  "Of  the  two,  if  it  is  any  good  to  you  to  know 
my  opinion,  she  is  more  likely  to  have  done  it  than 
you." 

"Oh,  I  have  killed  men,  in  my  time,"  said  Desmond. 
"But  not  that  poor  lad.  At  least — perhaps  that  is 
hardly  true.  Have  you  found  any  marks  of  violence?" 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Willett.  "But  he  might  have  been 
stabbed,  strangled,  poisoned — 

"He  died  of  fright,"  said  Desmond. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS 

WHEN  Mr.  Raymond  left  Kythe  in  the  playroom, 
she  lay  for  a  few  moments  with  closed  eyes  and  aching 
head,  hardly  conscious  of  anything  but  misery.  And 
when  she  heard  sounds  which  suggested  that  he  might 
be  returning,  she  got  herself  out  of  the  low  window  and 
down  the  garden. 

It  was  beginning  to  dawn  on  her  how  savage  had 
been  her  treatment  of  Guin  and  Lance.  True,  they 
were  not  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  parents;  yet  it 
was  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  done  to  them. 

That  was  the  worst  of  having  a  man  like  that  for  a 
father.  It  drove  one  to  do  terrible  things,  to  think 
them,  to  feel  them.  What  would  Major  Gervase  say, 
when  he  heard? 

She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  that.  She  had  a  drag- 
ging fear  at  her  heart  that  she  would  not  see  Gervase 
again;  and  she  dared  not  face  such  a  possibility.  The 
impulse  was  on  her  to  seek  out  Lance  and  Guin  and 
beg  their  pardon  for  her  attack  on  her  father  through 
them.  At  the  same  time  it  would  give  her  a  chance 
of  seeing  Gervase. 

Peeping  in  at  The  Domain  garden  door,  she  saw 
230 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  231 

Lance  and  Guin  go  down  to  the  cellar;  and  seized  with 
an  access  of  shyness,  refrained  from  calling  to  them. 
Then  she  crept  up  the  stair  to  their  room  to  wait  for 
them. 

She  heard  them  in  the  cellar,  stumble  and  run,  and 
scamper  up  the  stairs.  She  heard  them  slam  the  out- 
side door,  turning  the  key;  and  then  race  away  into 
the  garden.  No  notion  of  what  had  happened  dawned 
on  her,  of  course,  and  it  was  a  minute  or  two  before 
she  realised  that  she  was  locked  in. 

That  did  not  give  her  much  uneasiness  either.  She 
was  pretty  certain  they  would  come  back.  She  curled 
herself  up  on  the  spacious  sofa  and  nursed  her  woe; 
and  tears  came  again  blindingly  and  sorely,  making 
her  throat  ache  and  her  eyes  burn.  And  after  sobbing 
and  crying  hopelessly  for  nearly  an  hour,  she  slept 
from  sheer  exhaustion. 

She  did  not  hear  Gervase  come  with  Mr.  Talbot  and 
Constable  Thomas.  The  sounds  made  in  the  removal 
of  the  remains  did  not  fall  on  any  waking  sense.  She 
slept  until  one  in  the  morning,  and  woke,  bewildered, 
stiff  and  terrified. 

Her  terror  was  the  greater  when  she  remembered 
where  she  was;  at  fkst  she  could  not  think.  The 
chiming  of  the  old  clock,  the  rumbling  of  the  market- 
carts  and  the  tlip-tlop  of  the  hoofs  of  the  plodding 
horses,  seemed  as,  if  they  would  go  on,  had  gone  on, 
for  ever.  After  hours  of  sheer  fright,  made  worse  by 
a  torturing  thirst  which  she  dared  not  move  to  slake, 
she  heard  the  men  moving  in  the  garden. 

Again,  she  was  too  shy  to  call  out,  and  waited  in  the 


232     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

hope  of  hearing  the  downstairs  door  opened.  She  tip- 
toed about  the  room  in  the  early  sunshine,  washed  and 
tidied  herself  at  the  corner  washstand;  and  ate  a  piece 
of  cake  she  found  in  the  cupboard  near  it,  mixed  up 
with  the  soap  and  Lance's  tools.  By  and  by  she  fell 
asleep  again  on  the  sofa,  and  woke  up  to  find  Lance 
staring  at  her. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?"  asked 
Lance,  not  very  genially.  "Your  people  are  in  an 
awful  state.  They  think  you  have  disappeared!" 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Kythe,  dismally. 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  asked  Lance,  concentrating 
on  the  practical  side. 

"Last  night,  while  you  and  Guin  were  down  the 
cellar." 

"Have  you  been  here  all  night?"  with  incredulity. 

Kythe  nodded. 

Lance  was  speechless.  All  night,  alone,  in  the  place 
where  a  body  was  found — how  utterly  awful. 

"Didn't  you  hear  us  run  away?" 

Kythe  nodded  again. 

"Did  you  hear  the  men  come?" 

"No.    What  for?" 

Lance  was  silent.     He  simply  could  not  tell  her. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  and  Guin  I  was  sorry,  Lance. 
I  couldn't  go  to  bed " 

She  broke  down  and  had  hard  work  not  to  start  cry- 
ing again. 

"Oh,  rot,"  said  Lance,  very  uncomfortable.  "Never 
mind  that.  We  didn't  mind — at  least,  Guin  didn't. 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  233 

What  in  the  world  made  you  go  and  do  it,  Ky?  I 
should  never  have  thought  it  of  you." 

"Nor  me,"  whispered  Kythe,  nearly  weeping.  "I 
was  a  beast,  Lance;  I  don't  know  what  made  me.  It's 
him.  He  makes  me  want  to  do  all  sorts  of  things — 
awful  things.  And  there's  a  lot  more  you  don't  know 
— it's  been  going  on  and  going  on — I  wish  I  were 
dead." 

Lance  put  an  arm  round  her  shoulders. 

"Never  mind,  Ky.  Don't  cry.  We  are  all  right; 
it  shan't  make  any  difference.  But  I  say?  You  ought 
not  talk  of  him  like  that,  now.  Don't  kick  a  fellow 
when  he's  down,  you  know." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?     Is  he  dying?" 

There  was  almost  eagerness  in  her  voice. 

"No,"  said  Lance,  soberly.  "Perhaps  he  wishes  he 
were.  He's  in  prison,  Ky.  They  say  he  murdered  a 
man,  who  was  found,  here,  last  night.  Guin  and  I 
found  him.  She  did.  She  thought  it  was  a  woman." 

He  was  whispering  now,  and  she  was  holding  tightly 
to  his  arm  and  jacket. 

"Here?  Here,  where  I  slept?  Let's  get  out,  Lance. 
Oh,  let  us  get  out.  Come  away;  don't  let  us  stay  here. 
Oh,  Lance!" 

"No,  I  won't  go  home,"  she  said,  outside.  "I  am 
afraid  I'll  be  glad.  Mayn't  I  come  and  have  break- 
fast with  you?"  - 

Adams  went  round  to  The  Meadows  to  say  Miss 
Kythe  was  having  breakfast  at  The  Domain.  It  did 
not  occur  to  either  of  them  that  they  would  do  better, 


234    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

in  the  present  state  of  things,  to  keep  apart;  and  the 
effect  of  the  information  on  her  family  at  The  Meadows 
was  mercifully  veiled  from  them. 

In  the  porch,  at  the  side  entrance,  they  paused. 
Kythe  felt  shy  and  awkward. 

"Will  Guin  be  cross?"  she  said. 

"Not  she,"  said  Lance.  "I  say,  Kythe.  What  made 
you — how  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"Your  mother  told  me." 

"My  mother?"  with  profound  amazement. 

"Yes.    It  is  true,  isn't  it?" 

"7  don't  know!  Why  should  it  be?"  with  angry 
protest  against  his  own  conviction  that  it  was  true. 
"But  when  did  she  tell  you?  What  for?" 

"She  was  in  a  fearful  temper.  Arthur  and  I  were 
in  your  room " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  Gervase's  Christian 
name  in  speaking  of  him,  and  it  made  Lance  stare 
harder. 

"Uncle  Arthur?  Well,  what  was  she  in  a  temper 
about?" 

"We  were  talking  of  her,  and  saying  she  was  to  be 
made  to  go.  Lady  Katherine  says  she  is  not  to  stay; 
and  she  was  listening  and  heard  us.  And  she  went 
for  us,  and  said  it  all — awful  things,  about  Guin's 
hands,  and  hanging  pictures — and  having  hold  on  us — 
Lance!  Will  it  prevent  Arthur  and  me  being  mar- 
ried, you  and  Guin  and  me  being  sort  of  brother  and 
sisters?" 

"What's  that?"  asked  Lance,  sharply.  "Married  to 
who?" 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  235 

"To  me — to  him — us.    We  want  to." 

"Rot."    His  incredulous  scorn  was  very  emphatic. 

"It's  not  rot.  It's  true.  You  ask  him,  if  you  like. 
He  came  and  told  my  father;  and  Father  burst  out 
crying  and  it  was  dreadful " 

Teresa's  voice  sounded  near  at  hand,  and  they 
stopped  talking  and  hurried  in. 

Guin  received  the  visitor  rather  shyly,  though  cor- 
dially; and  presently  a  messenger  came  to  say  that 
they  were  none  of  them  to  go  to  school  that  day,  and 
that  Kythe  was  to  go  back  to  The  Meadows  at  once. 

Gervase  joined  her  in  the  garden. 

"I  will  see  you  home,  Kythe,"  he  said.  "All  right, 
Lance;  you  can  go." 

Lance  watched  them  go,  with  varying  emotions.  Of 
which  surprise  was  the  greatest. 

Silently,  Kythe  went  with  her  lover. 

In  The  Meadows  garden,  among  the  rose  bushes,  he 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

"This  is  the  last  time,  Kythe,"  he  said.  "There  is 
no  way  out  of  it,  and  we  must  give  it  up.  You  see 
that,  don't  you?" 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  happened — about  my 
father?"  asked  Kythe,  fighting  for  time;  time  in  which 
to  think  of  some  plea  that  would  move  him. 

"Guin  and  Lance  found  a  secret  door  in  the  cellar 
last  night.  There' was  a  dead  man — a  skeleton — in  the 
passage,  and  it  was  poor  Willie  Johnstone.  My  sister, 
Lance  and  Guin's  mother — do  you  understand,  Kythe? 
They  are  your  half-brother  and  sister,  she  is  their 
mother  and  your  father  is  their  father — she  gave  in- 


236    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

formation  to  the  police  that  your  father  committed 
the  murder  out  of  jealousy,  and  that  was  why  he  went 
away.  And  the  green  baize  apron  he  was  wearing 
when  he  was  last  seen — the  remains  of  it  have  been 
found  alongside  Johnstone's  body." 

Horror  at  Teresa's  wickedness  and  treachery  kept 
her  silent  for  a  moment.  Swiftly  came  another  devas- 
tating thought. 

"Will  my  father  be  hanged?" 

That  would  indeed  be  her  mother's  death  sentence! 

"My  dear,  I  do  not  know  what  will  happen.  I  do 
not  think  he  did  it,  but  he  cannot  bring  any  witnesses 
to  prove  him  innocent — it  is  a  bad  business — Kythe, 
don't  be  hard  on  him.  He  is  in  a  terrible  position,  and 
she  has  been  pursuing  him  for  years.  She  has  hunted 
him  from  place  to  place  and  country  to  country — what 
a  fiend  she  is!" 

"She  ought  to  be  the  one  hanged,"  said  Kythe,  sav- 
agely. "But  why  can  we  not  wait,  Arthur?  We  are 
not  real  relations — why  should  it  separate  us?" 

"There  is  no  real  why,  except  that  it  must,"  he  an- 
swered, forcing  himself  to  be  brutal,  as  the  only  pos- 
sible way.  "I  cannot  go  on  with  it,  Kythe.  It  would 
not  be  decent.  It  is  utterly  impossible." 

Kythe  looked  at  him  blankly.  She  was  not  wanting 
in  pride;  and  as  she  looked,  the  situation  seemed  to 
change  in  aspect. 

"Very  well,"  she  replied,  with  amazing  dignity  and 
self-control.  "That  is  what  is  called  jilting,  isn't  it? 
You  are  right  in  saying  it  would  not  be  decent. 
It  is  not  decent  to  want  to  marry  a  man  who  doesn't 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  237 

want  to.  And  if  you  cannot  face  the  first  trouble  that 
comes,  you  are  not  fit  for  me  to  want.  I  am  sorry  I 
have  allowed  you  to  kiss  me." 

She  walked  away  from  him  without  another  word  of 
farewell,  ignoring  his  "good-bye,  darling."  In  her 
breast  was  a  raging  anger,  embracing  Gervase,  her 
father,  and  all  men.  Curs,  she  called  them;  and  said 
it  over  and  over.  How  happy  they  had  been,  without 
Father,  and  when  Lennox  was  away,  and  before  Ger- 
vase came  to  live!  She,  at  any  rate,  would  never  be 
happy  again. 

And  now  her  father  was  in  prison.  More  wretched- 
ness and  trouble  for  mother!  And  what  for  the  man 
who  was  the  cause  of  it?  Gervase's  words  came  back 
to  her — "she  has  been  pursuing  him  for  years.  She 
has  hunted  him  from  place  to  place  and  from  country 
to  country" — and  it  sounded  more  terrible  even  than 
the  death  sentence  of  which  he  stood  in  danger  now. 

Something  of  her  father's  burden  of  wretchedness 
came  home  to  her  understanding.  The  wrenching  sobs 
she  had  seen  wrung  from  him,  the  breaking-down  of 
his  fortitude,  the  failure  of  his  armour  of  hard  insen- 
sibility, began  to  have  more  and  more  meaning,  more 
reality  than  Gervase's  kisses,  more  poignancy  than  her 
own  distress.  They  clutched  at  her  heart  and  turned 
her  anger  to  tears,  and  sent  her  flying  to  her  mother 
in  a  passion  of  pity  and  self-reproach,  in  which  her  own 
wild  sorrow  for  the  moment  was  swamped. 

Lance  was  beginning  to  recover  his  nerve;  and  not 
being  allowed  to  go  to  school,  nor  to  play  in  the  Old 
Tower,  which  was  sealed  up  until  the  enquiry  should 


238    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

be  over,  his  natural  interest  in  the  event  in  which 
he  and  Guin  had  played  so  important  a  part  came 
buoyantly  to  the  surface.  He  pumped  information 
out  of  the  servants,  the  tradesmen,  the  postman,  and 
all  other  chance  callers,  even  "trying  it  on"  with  Con- 
stable Thomas.  Finally,  he  had  an  Iclaircissement 
with  his  uncle. 

It  was  at  tea-time.  A  tray  was  taken  into  the 
library  for  Gervase,  who  came  in  looking  tired  and 
harassed. 

"May  we  come  in,  Uncle  Arthur?"  , 

They  did  so  without  further  permission. 

"Uncle  Arthur,"  Lance  began,  dropping  on  to  the 
rug  and  pulling  Guin  down  beside  him,  "we  want  to 
know  all  about  it." 

"All  about  what?" 

"What  is  happening;  to  my  mother,  and — father." 

Gervase  looked  at  him  in  dismay. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  discuss  it,  Lance,  old  chap.  It 
is  not  a  story  to  tell  children 

"We  knew  you  would  say  that,"  interrupted  Guin, 
"but  it  is  not  fair.  We  were  the  people  who  found 
the — man  dead,  and  it's  our  father  and  mother.  We 
want  to  know.  It  is  more  our  business  than  anyone 
else's.  We  don't  want  to  grow  up,  to  be  told  things 
all  wrong  years  after  it  happened,  by  people  who've 
half-forgotten  or  never  knew  properly " 

She  broke  off,  flushed  and  excited,  remembering  how 
in  days  gone  by  they  had  often  listened,  with  more 
or  less  of  interest,  when  grown-up  people  tried  to 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  239 

fashion  a  tale  out  of  the  past.  The  corners  never  fit- 
ted, she  used  to  say  to  Lance. 

"We  know  too  much,"  said  Lance,  wisely,  "not  to 
be  told  more.  Mr.  Desmond's  our  father  as  well  as 
Kythe's.  It's  horrible,  and  we  hate  it;  but  we  know 
it,  and  it  is  no  use  hating  it.  You  none  of  you  can 
prevent  it.  Is  he  going  to  be  tried  for  bigamy  as  well, 
or  doesn't  that  matter?  And  why  is  that  woman  in 
Mother's  room?  You  ought  to  tell  us,  Uncle  Arthur." 

Thus  adjured,  Gervase  endeavoured  to  meet  the  situ- 
ation. 

"Mr.  Desmond  is  arrested  under  a  warrant,  for  the 
murder  of  Willie  Johnstone,  son  of  old  Amos,"  he 
began,  evading  the  question  of  bigamy.  "It  was  his 
body  you  found.  Your  mother  is  under  detention  and 
will  probably  be  taken  to  prison  to-night,  charged  as 
an  accessory  or  an  accomplice  or  something.  The 
clothes  on  the  body  were  her  clothes.  Mr.  Desmond 
says  the  man  died  of  fright." 

He  stopped,  arrested  by  a  sudden  movement  of 
Lance's. 

"Mother's  clothes?  That's  rummy.  Uncle  Arthur, 
I  remember  Mother  showing  a  man  a  jacket  and 
trousers  and  things,  and  saying  they  came  off  a  corpse. 
I  remember,  because  I  was  frightened  at  night,  sleep- 
ing in  the  room  where  they  were  in  the  cupboard." 

"For  heaven's  sate,"  cried  Gervase,  "don't  you  say 
a  word  about  that!" 

It  would  be  the  last  straw  if  these  unfortunate  chil- 
dren were  to  be  put  in  the  witness-box  to  help  rivet 


240    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

the  guilt  of  this  matter  on  their  father  and  mother. 
In  any  case,  he  was  afraid  he  would  not  be  able  to 
prevent  Guin  being  called,  as  to  the  finding  of  the  body, 
at  the  inquest  which  was  to  open  next  day.  What 
toils  they  were  taken  in!  And  there  was  the  terrible 
task  before  him  of  telling  Lady  Katherine.  So  far  she 
knew  nothing;  but  it  could  not  be  kept  from  her  longer. 

He  admonished  the  children  sternly  to  keep  silence 
about  their  mother's  affairs  and  then  dragged  his  re- 
luctant steps  to  Lady  Katherine's  room. 

Lady  Katherine  was  sitting  up,  looking  more  herself; 
and  Gervase  felt  savage  when  he  thought  of  the  story 
he  had  to  tell,  which  would  probably  throw  her  back 
again  to  the  pitiable  weakness  from  which  she  had  re- 
vived. 

He  kissed  her  and  pulled  up  a  chair. 

"You  will  want  all  your  strength,  Gran.  A  shock- 
ing thing  has  happened;  the  worst  that  has  come  on 
us  yet." 

And  he  told  her,  from  first  to  last,  she  listening  with 
never  a  word. 

She  lay  back,  when  the  recital  ended,  her  lips  mov- 
ing silently,  her  hands  working.  Then  she  collected 
herself. 

"At  last;  it  has  come  at  last,"  she  said,  hoarsely. 
"What  has  Mr.  Desmond  said?" 

"Nothing  yet,  except  that  Johnstone  died  of  fright." 

"Will  you  see  his  solicitor,  and  ask  him  to  come  and 
see  me?  Who  is  acting  for  him?" 

"His  own  man  of  business,  I  think.  Raymond  wired 
him  first  thing  this  morning." 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  241 

"I  do  not  know  whether  what  I  have  to  say  is  any 
use;  but  it  had  better  be  said." 

After  a  brief  reflection,  she  added, 

"You  spoke  of  marrying  one  of  the  Desmond  girls, 
my  boy.  You  realise  now,  do  you  not,  how  utterly 
impossible  it  would  be?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  in  a  husky  voice.  "I  told  her 
so." 

It  cost  him  a  terrible  effort  to  speak  of  Kythe.  He 
longed  for  her,  now  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  her, 
in  a  way  he  was  finding  it  hard  to  combat.  It  would 
mean,  in  the  end,  that  he  would  have  to  leave  The 
Domain. 

Everything  he  cared  for,  swept  away  from  him 
by  the  disgraceful  Teresa  and  her  intrigues,  in  which 
he  had  no  part!  His  soul  rose  up  in  revolt.  Why 
should  he  sacrifice  his  life  and  his  love 

"Tell  him  to  see  me  to-morrow  without  fail,"  Lady 
Katherine  was  saying. 

The  key  of  the  door  in  the  cellar  was  found  among 
Teresa's  things  well  oiled  and  in  good  condition.  It 
matched  the  keys  found  by  Farmer  Johnstone's  men, 
and  there  was  little  doubt  that  those  two  belonged  to 
the  doors  of  the  long  passage.  So  rusted  were  they, 
however,  that  they  could  not  be  used  without  breaking 
the  wards;  and  the  heavy  carved  door  at  which  the 
investigation  stopped  was  opened  by  other  means. 

The  exit  was  a  stone  slab,  that  opened  on  a  hinge, 
and  that  fastened  with  enormous  iron  bolts.  The 
stone,  lifted,  proved  to  be  the  inner  threshold  of  one 
of  the  ramshackle  sheds  near  the  manure-heaps  in  the 


242     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Homestead  Farm,  hard  by  where  Farmer  Johnstone's 
men  were  searching  and  digging. 

The  stone  was  so  large,  the  bolts  and  hinges  so  stiff 
that  the  strength  of  two  or  three  men  was  required  to 
lift  it.  Even  if  in  good  repair,  well  oiled,  it  would  be 
a  task  for  a  man.  Teresa,  for  instance,  could  never 
have  used  that  exit  unaided. 

This  discovery,  added  to  the  other,  was  naturally 
the  main  topic  of  conversation  in  Lower  Domain  that 
day.  At  Tenterley's,  at  The  Blue-nosed  Man,  and 
wherever  people  foregathered,  it  was  discussed  with 
varying  degrees  of  heat  and  excitement.  Amos  John- 
stone  was  easily  the  most  popular  person  in  the  village ; 
and  further  developments  were  awaited  with  thrilling 
interest. 

As  the  market-carts  rumbled  through  on  their  lei- 
surely way,  people  called  the  news  to  the  sleepy  drivers, 
who  ruminated  on  it  until  slumber  overtook  them  and 
left  them  to  the  wise  guidance  of  their  plodding  horses. 
Servants  from  The  Domain  and  The  Meadows  went 
about  full  of  importance  and  were  given  respectful  at- 
tention. Dr.  Willett  was  the  object  of  supreme  in- 
terest on  account  of  his  presence  at  the  examination 
of  the  corpse. 

Lance  and  Guin,  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement, 
went  in  search  of  Kythe.  By  some  mystery  of  telep- 
athy, they  informed  her  of  their  presence  and  she 
came  with  them  to  The  Domain  garden. 

She  looked  years  older,  and  thinner.  She  was  living 
and  using  up  her  emotional  resources  at  a  fearful  rate. 

In  the  garden  she  was  very  silent. 


BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS  243 

"Have  you  any  news?"  asked  Lance.  "We  want 
to  know  all  we  can.  It  concerns  us  more  than  anyone 
— you  and  me  and  Gum." 

"My  mother  is  dying,"  said  Kythe,  blankly. 

They  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"There  is  going  to  be  an  operation  to-morrow.  The 
nurses  are  coming  to-night.  Lennox  is  here,  and  Lut- 
trell  and  Hubert  are  coming  to-morrow,  and  Uncle 
Harry." 

"If  there  is  an  operation,  it  may  be  all  right,"  sug- 
gested Lance. 

Kythe  shook  her  head. 

"Dr.  Willett  does  not  think  so.  It's  her  heart.  It 
is  all  this  that  has  killed  her;  and  I  have  helped.  I 
have  helped  to  make  her  miserable.  I've  promised  her, 
Lance,  that  I'll  look  after  him" 

The  two,  in  whose  veins,  as  in  hers,  ran  the  man's 
blood,  looked  at  her,  as  she  said  that,  as  across  a  gulf. 
She  was  further  removed  from  them,  it  seemed,  than 
if  she  had  died.  They  saw  her  go  with  relief;  and 
she  left,  in  leaving  them,  the  last  of  her  childhood 
behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   TRAP 

MR.  DESMOND  did  not  manage  to  get  his  story  told 
to  his  sister  and  brother-in-law.  They  ate  dinner  in 
a  brooding  silence,  which  lasted  over  the  coffee  and 
for  some  time  afterwards.  Then  he  roused  himself. 

It  was,  however,  to  talk  of  his  wife.  He  wanted 
to  know,  thirstily,  greedily,  what  had  happened  when 
Kythe  was  born.  Was  she  ill?  Did  she  recover 
quickly?  Had  her  health  been  good  since?  His 
gnawing  anxiety  betrayed  itself  in  every  word  and 
every  searching  question.  He  pursued  the  enquiry 
with  a  lack  of  reticence  that  embarrassed  the  Rector 
and  left  Mrs.  Raymond  speechless. 

Long  silences,  in  which  Raymond  and  his  wife  waited 
expectantly  for  the  enlightenment  promised  them, 
broke  the  conversation.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  speak  of  what  befell  him;  and  in  very 
truth  that  was  the  case.  Then  came  Teresa's  inter- 
ruption, and  his  mood  changed. 

He  repeated  to  them  the  sum  of  her  disclosures,  and 
moved  restlessly  about  the  room,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  alert  glance  now  here,  now  there,  his  head 
poised  to  listen,  while  he  stood  before  the  fire,  or  at 

244 


THE  TRAP  245 

the  window,  or  studied  one  of  the  pictures,  or  looked 
at  a  paper  unseeingly.  And  still  his  tale  remained  un- 
told. 

"It  will  all  come  out  now,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a 
loud,  defiant  way.  The  defiance,  they  felt  vaguely, 
was  not  for  them;  it  was  directed  elsewhere.  "It  will 
all  come  out.  It  will  have  to.  Who  will  believe  it, 
I  wonder?" 

"Oh,  David,"  implored  his  sister,  half-tearfully,  half- 
fretfully,  "had  you  not  better  tell  us?" 

He  looked  at  her,  from  his  coign  of  vantage  on  the 
hearth-rug,  as  if  something  entirely  strange  had  sud- 
denly been  brought  to  his  notice. 

"Hadn't  I  better  tell  you?"  he  repeated  slowly. 
"Well,  that  is  what  I  am  trying  to  do.  Trying  to  do." 

His  gaze  wandered  again,  and  he  fell  silent  once 
more. 

When  his  sister  made  a  sound  of  mingled  impatience 
and  concern,  he  looked  at  her  with  that  strange  look 
of  having  discovered  something  new. 

"You  were  with  me,"  he  began;  and  then  broke  off. 

"It  was  you,  wasn't  it,  with  me,  when  I  went  out, 
that  day?" 

Mrs.  Raymond  nodded,  her  heart  in  her  mouth. 

"I  stayed  in  the  playroom  with  the  children,"  she 
ventured. 

"Hubert  and  Hero,"  he  confirmed.  "The  babies 
What  a  dear  little  pair  they  were." 

He  lost  himself  again. 

"When  I  went  out,"  he  said,  after  a  lapse,  "I  went 
for  those  nails.  For  nothing  else.  I  had  hardly  seen 


246    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

her.  I  just  knew  her  by  sight.  Once  I  had  lifted  my 
hat,  as  I  almost  walked  into  her,  coming  out  of  our 
garden-door.  I  knew  nothing  about  her.  It  was  no 
doing  of  mine.  God!  How  a  man  can  get  en- 
tangled  " 

He  spoke  loudly,  protestingly.  The  sweat  gleamed 
on  his  coarsened  face. 

"Trapped,  and  entangled,  and  snared;  kidnapped — 
and  me  a  married  man  and  she  a  school  girl !  Does  it 
sound  likely?  Who  would  believe  it?  And  black- 
mailed; and  falsely  accused  and  convicted;  and  hound- 
ed; and  now  run  to  earth — an  inconceivable  story, 
and  true — true.  But  who  will  believe  it?" 

Hoarse,  perspiring,  protesting,  he  pleaded  as  if  be- 
fore some  tribunal. 

"Trapped,"  he  repeated,  "and  robbed.  Robbed  of 
my  life,  my  wife,  my  home,  my  happiness,  my  honour. 
Who  will  believe  me?" 

Who  indeed?  Had  he  not  already  been  judged  and 
condemned  unheard? 

"But  what  did  happen,  David?" 

"I  went  for  those  nails,"  he  repeated,  drearily. 
"Out  of  the  garden-door.  Would  anyone  have  be- 
lieved," in  frenzied  protest,  "that  anything  could  have 
happened,  in  that  short  distance?" 

"What  did  happen?"  probed  the  Rector,  as  one 
despairing  but  patient.  It  seemed  as  if  the  man  could 
not  get  beyond  his  protest. 

"The  garden-door  of  The  Domain  was  open.  It 
wasn't  often  open.  I  could  not  remember  having  seen 
it  open  before,  except  when  the  market-garden  stuff 


THE  TRAP  247 

was  being  taken  out.  An  errand-boy  came  out.  He 
was  whistling — he  was  whistling  'John  Jones' — I  did 
not  hear  the  latch  catch  and  knew  he  had  left  the  door 
undone.  I  thought  I  would  look  in.  I  crossed  over 
and  went  that  side  of  the  road — in  pure  curiosity;  in 
pure  curiosity.  I  meant  to  peep  in.  Pure  curiosity." 

His  voice  tailed  away  in  a  heavy  sigh. 

"What  did  you  see?" 

"I  saw  nothing.  I  heard — I  heard  a  groan,  and 
something  like  a  call  for  help.  And  then  I  stepped  in. 
I  stepped  in — stepped  in  to  my  doom.  The  last  happy 
moment  I  ever  knew." 

He  looked  so  hunted,  so  haggard,  so  racked  with 
some  anguish  of  recollection,  the  Rector  forebore  to 
press  the  question  burning  on  his  lips. 

"What  did  Honoria  do?"  began  Desmond  again, 
rousing  himself  unhappily  from  his  painful  thoughts. 

Now  that  he  was  loosing  the  pent-in  tide  of  memory 
his  desire  to  know,  in  regard  to  his  wife,  was  insatiable. 
They  catered  for  it,  as  well  as  they  were  able,  restrain- 
ing their  own  curiosity  as  best  they  could. 

Then  came  the  second  summons;  and  Constable 
Thomas  bore  off  his  prisoner,  the  tale  remaining  untold. 

"The  man  died  of  fright." 

That  was  what  the  Rector  heard  Desmond  say,  in 
The  Domain  library.  To  be  able  to  make  such  a 
statement,  he  must  have  been  present  when  young 
Johnstone  died.  Was  it  something  that  Desmond  did, 
some  threat,  some  act  of  violence,  that  so  frightened 
the  man  to  his  death?  It  looked  very  much  as  if  that 
must  have  been  the  case. 


248    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Nothing  more  would  he  say;  and  Teresa  declared 
she  would  tell  her  story  "at  the  right  time."  Now 
that  she  was  charged  too,  the  Rector  presumed  she 
would  be  telling  it! 

In  talking  it  over  with  Mr.  Talbot,  the  Rector  got 
some  small  measure  of  comfort. 

Mr.  Talbot  had  formed  a  very  strong  opinion  of 
Desmond's  innocence;  and  believed  the  murder  to 
have  been  committed  by  Teresa. 

"She  has  got  him  so  that  he  cannot  disprove  it,"  he 
remarked.  "He  has  been  under  the  harrow  all  these 
years — poor  wretch,  what  a  fate ! " 

"It  is  enough  to  rob  one  of  one's  belief  in  Provi- 
dence," said  the  Rector,  sorrowfully.  "What  does 
Gervase  say,  Talbot?  I  have  hardly  seen  him  to  speak 
to,  and  to-night  I  naturally  could  not  ask." 

They  were  walking  home  together  after  Desmond's 
arrest. 

"I  cannot  ask  him  much  either,"  explained  Mr.  Tal- 
bot. "After  all,  she  is  his  sister — and  he  knows  I 
want  to  get  at  her!  Do  you  know  what  I  hate  the 
thought  of,  Raymond?  That  bounding  old  Gotto. 
He  will  shriek  'I  told  you  so'  from  everlasting  unto 
everlasting." 

Mr.  Talbot's  fears  were  not  unjustified.  Before 
he  had  time  to  calm  his  troubled  spirit  with  his  nightly 
pipe,  glass,  and  Ovid,  the  uplifted  peer  was  battering 
on  his  door,  and  heralding  his  arrival  with  noise  and 
triumphant  laughs. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  what  did  I  tell  you?"  he 
roared.  "You  can't  get  up  earlier  in  the  morning  than 


THE  TRAP  249 

Gotto,  I  tell  you.  You  think  you  can,  but  you  can't. 
When  it  comes  to  seeing  through  a  brick  wall,  there's 
not  many  can  beat  me.  You  know  it  now,  so  perhaps 
you  will  believe  me  next  time." 

Mr.  Talbot  silenced  him  for  a  moment  with  the 
whiskey,  to  which  he  helped  himself  largely.  He  had 
already  had  quite  a  plentiful  allowance.  His  face,  of 
a  crimson-purple,  most  unpleasant  to  behold,  looked 
as  if  it  might  burst  at  any  moment;  and  he  diffused 
an  atmosphere  reminiscent  of  empty  casks  and  deserted 
l?ar-rooms,  that  Mr.  Talbot  found  disgusting. 

Gulping  and  shouting;  his  drink  reverberating 
noisily  in  his  throat  and  his  inside;  the  noble  and 
objectionable  lord  pursued  his  own  panegyric  without 
interruption.  It  was  not  until  he  began  to  instruct 
Mr.  Talbot  as  to  how  the  enquiry  should  be  conducted 
that  tempers  got  ruffled. 

"She'll  make  your  best  witness,"  bawled  Lord  Gotto, 
referring  to  Teresa. 

"I  wouldn't  hang  a  dog  on  the  evidence  of  a  woman 
like  that,"  retorted  Mr.  Talbot.  "And  she  is  under 
suspicion  herself." 

"There's  your  chance,  to  get  her  as  King's  evidence." 

"Her  evidence  isn't  worth  the  smallest  considera- 
tion. I  should  be  very  sorry  for  any  case  for  the 
Crown  to  be  built  upon  what  she  could  say;  and  so 
long  as  it  is  in  my  hands,  before  it  goes  higher,  I  shall 
assess  her  evidence  at  what  it  is  worth.  You  needn't 
shout  at  me,  Gotto.  It  is  not  the  slightest  use.  And 
tell  me,  who  gave  you  news  of  this?" 

"The  wretched  man's  father— Jackson— Johnson." 


250    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Oh!     Amos  Johnstone.     He  must  have  hurried!" 

"A  very  good  thing  he  did.  I  can  see  that  quite 
well,  Talbot.  A  very  good  thing;  someone  has  got  to 
watch  this  case,  to  prevent  your  letting  that  rotter  off. 
For,  mark  my  words,  that's  what  you  want  to  do, 
Talbot.  You  want  to  let  him  off.  You  are  prepared 
to  strain  the  law.  You  are  prepared  to  leave  loop- 
holes. I  have  my  eye  on  you,  don't  make  any  mistake 
about  that.  And  if  I  find  evidence  of  any  hanky- 
panky,  I'll  show  it  up.  You  can  take  that  from  me. 
I'll  show  it  up  without  mercy." 

He  gulped  and  gurgled  and  reverberated  alarmingly, 
as  he  rose,  drank,  struggled  into  his  fur  coat,  and  got 
himself  off,  bawling  angrily. 

Mr.  Talbot,  who  did  not  like  Mr.  Desmond,  and  had 
felt  most  strongly  about  his  unexplained  return,  went 
to  bed  feeling  that  any  advantage  he  could  possibly 
use  for  that  gentleman's  help  would  be  a  pleasure;  and 
that  if  he  could  provide  him  with  a  free  pardon  for  any 
and  every  crime  he  had  ever  committed,  it  would  be 
only  fitting  to  do  so,  in  the  hope  of  adding  to  Lord 
Gotto's  annoyance. 

The  whole  of  Fairlands  appeared  to  share  Lord 
Gotto's  extreme  views;  and  it  was  repeated  from 
mouth  to  mouth  that  Mr.  Talbot  meant  to  twist  things 
in  Mr.  Desmond's  favour  at  the  enquiry.  The  inquest, 
of  course,  was  to  come  first;  but  a  Coroner's  jury  ver- 
dict did  not  really  count  for  much.  It  was  Mr.  Talbot 
who  counted.  If  he  would  not  commit  for  trial,  it  was 
quite  certain  his  fellow  justices  would  agree  with  him. 
It  was  a  scandalous  state  of  things  that  the  administra- 


THE  TRAP  251 

tion  of  justice  should  be  in  such  hands.  If  men  like 
Gotto  were  on  the  Bench,  now!  He  was  the  chap 
to  make  'em  wake  up  and  sit  up. 

Lower  Domain  was  less  cocksure.  Mr.  Desmond 
was  not  popular.  His  conduct  had  been  peculiar,  and 
in  a  way  inexcusable,  but  no  one  wanted  to  see  him  in 
prison,  much  less  hanged.  The  pendulum  swung  in 
his  favour.  Tenterley  was  gravely  concerned;  the 
market-garden  men  openly  said  it  was  a  damned  shame 
and  the  general  opinion  was  that  it  would  be  a  thorough 
good  riddance  if  flighty  madam  at  The  Domain  could 
be  put  in  his  place. 

"A  good  fright  would  larn  her,"  said  the  men. 

"Pity  we  can't  drown  her,"  said  the  women. 
"Drown  her  and  done  with  her." 

Then  it  was  known  that  she  was  arrested  too. 

Amos  Johnstone  went  about  with  a  kind  of  Nunc 
Dimittis  expression  on  his  face,  speaking  in  excited 
whispers,  trotting  about  restlessly  and  erratically.  He 
could  stick  to  nothing  in  the  way  of  work,  and  his 
brother  cursed  him  heartily  and  said  hard  things  of 
him  and  his  dead  son.  Nevertheless,  Farmer  John- 
stone  was  much  impressed,  although  he  would  not 
admit  it,  with  the  dogged  instinct  that  had  stuck  to 
the  trail  all  those  years  and  been  proven  right  in  the 
end.  He  cherished  a  greater  respect  for  Amos — hid- 
den away  carefully  from  its  object — and  was  proud 
of  the  distinction  shed  on  the  family. 

"It  was  the  finding  of  that  there  body,  that  set 
me  athinking,"  the  poor  fellow  explained  everlast- 
ingly and  at  Tenterley's  the  view  was  expressed 


252     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

that  old  Amos  he  weren't  such  a  softy  as  he  looked. 

By  the  evening  of  the  day,  when  Teresa,  in  a  closed 
carriage,  with  a  female  prison  attendant,  had  been 
driven  away  to  a  place  of  detention,  and  when  Lennox 
and  Hubert  arrived,  news  of  Mrs.  Desmond's  condi- 
tion leaked  out.  Dr.  Willett  went  his  rounds  with  a 
shadow  on  his  cheery  old  face;  and  a  stream  of  callers, 
high  and  lowly,  found  their  way  to  The  Meadows, 
asking  for  news  and  expressing  regret  and  sympathy. 
At  Tenterley's,  the  situation  was  summed  up. 

"If  they  don't  let  him  out  to  see  her  afore  she  goos, 
it  won't  be  justice,  it'll  be  sheer  damn  cruelty. 
Worse'n  Roossia.  Mr.  Talbot,  he'll  never  stand  for 
that.  He's  a  rightjious  man  and  he  won't  goo  and 
part  man  and  wife  like  that  wi'out  a  last  word.  I'd 
sooner  he'd  get  away  and  'scape,  like  he  did  afore, 
than  see  a  thing  the  like  of  that  done.  Worse'n 
Roossia,  that'd  be." 

Having  made  up  her  mind  to  what  appeared  to  be 
a  painful  effort,  Lady  Katherine  did  not  suffer  as  much 
from  the  consequences  as  Gervase  had  feared  she 
would  do.  She  braced  herself  for  the  ordeal  that  had 
to  be  faced;  and  in  many  ways  seemed  to  be  returning 
to  her  old  self.  Gervase  came  to  her  room,  at  the 
end  of  her  interview  with  Desmond's  solicitor,  Mr. 
Beaumont,  a  lean,  melancholy  man,  very  long  in  the 
legs  and  small  in  the  head,  who  looked  as  if  his  dealings 
with  humanity  had  been  disappointing;  and  found  him 
in  the  act  of  stowing  away  a  document  with  a  broken 
seal  in  his  shabby  despatch-case. 


THE  TRAP  253 

"It  is  mentioned  in  my  will,"  Lady  Katherine  was 
saying,  "  'To  be  handed  to  Mrs.  Desmond.'  " 

"It  would,  I  venture  to  think,  have  been  more  to  the 
purpose  if  it  had  been  handed  to  Mr.  Desmond  im- 
mediately on  his  return,"  observed  the  lawyer,  with 
some  severity. 

Lady  Katherine  said  nothing;  and  Gervase  inter- 
vened hastily,  with  enquiries  for  her  health. 

After  a  few  such  insignificant  remarks,  Gervase 
gave  further  information. 

"Teresa  has  made  a  statement,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"She  says  the  clothes  on  the  skeleton  were  hers,  and 
that  she  helped  Desmond  escape.  Her  room  has  been 
searched — they  found  the  key  of  one  of  those  doors 
in  her  dressing-bag.  She  says  that  Desmond  lived 
with  her  until  he  jibbed  at  providing  for  his  children, 
and  that  then  he  bolted;  and  eventually  murdered  the 
man  that  she  sent  to  find  him,  and  luckily  got  it 
brought  in  manslaughter.  He  served  five  years  for  it, 
got  away  to  the  States  and  then  to  South  Africa,  where 
he  enlisted  in  a  Mounted  Police  Force  under  another 
man's  name,  and  did  time  on  the  Breakwater  at  Cape 
Town  for  that.  He  served  in  the  South  African  War 
and  got  to  be  sergeant-major  in  a  corps  of  Light  Horse, 
and  has  a  lot  of  medals  and  distinctions  in  the  name 
of  Lennox.  Then  he  went  to  the  Philippines  and 
knocked  about  there;  and  she  tracked  him  down  all  the 
time.  It  was  there  she  sent  him  the  news  of  her  death. 
He  threw  up  everything,  as  she  knew  he  would,  and 
came  home;  and  as  soon  as  she  heard  he  was  here, 
she  followed." 


254    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"What  does  she  say  about  the  way  Johnstone  met 
his  death?"  asked  the  lawyer,  after  a  non-committal 
pause.  Lady  Katherine  was  looking  smitten. 

"She  says  Desmond  was  jealous  of  the  lad,  with 
whom  she  had  a  sort  of  flirtation  when  no  one  else 
was  available.  Desmond  found  Johnstone,  according 
to  her,  kissing  her;  and  got  him  by  his  neckcloth, 
breaking  his  neck  as  he  flung  him  down  the  inner 
stairs.  She  got  into  Johnstone's  clothes,  and  they  got 
away  in  old  Johnstone's  market-cart,  disposing  of  the 
stuff  in  the  usual  way.  She  appears  to  have  gone  up 
to  market  in  that  sort  of  disguise,  at  night,  on  other 
occasions,  and  helped  the  young  fellow  to  unload,  and 
so  forth;  so  she  was  known  amongst  his  mates  and  the 
others,  who  took  her  for  a  boy.  As  Johnstone  had 
already  proved  dishonest,  it  was  no  surprise  to  anyone. 
His  father  got  the  cart  and  horses  back,  and  you  know 
how  all  the  rest  of  it,  Teresa's  going  off  and  so  on, 
was  hushed  up." 

"It  sounds  fatally  plausible,"  said  the  depressing 
man  of  business. 

"It  sounds  too  horrible,"  said  Lady  Katherine,  with 
trembling  lips.  "Bad  as  I  knew  her  to  be — this  is 
inhuman.  Stripping  the  body,  hardly  cold;  and  she 
only  seventeen!  Getting  into  its  clothes,  dressing  it 
in  hers — it  sounds  hardly  human,  hardly  believable." 

"She  was  rather  driven  to  it,  by  her  account,  by 
Desmond,  who  carried  things  with  a  high  hand.  We 
have  seen  some  signs  of  a  sort  of  brutality  in  him — 
everyone  has  noticed  it.  And  besides,  near  where  the 


THE  TRAP  255 

body  was  lying  they  found  the  green  baize  apron,  that 
there  was  so  much  talk  about,  all  gone  to  pieces,  but 
quite  recognizable." 

"Does  she  say  anything,"  asked  the  lawyer,  "of  an 
accident  to  him?" 

"No,  not  that  I  heard  of,"  answered  Gervase. 

Lady  Katherine  and  the  lawyer  looked  hard  into 
each  other's  eyes. 

"They  escaped  by  that  exit,  lifting  the  huge  stone — 
the  two  of  them — without  help?  That  may  be  where 
this  comes  in,"  said  the  lawyer,  impressively,  tapping 
the  despatch-case.  "We  shall  see." 

Lady  Katherine  nodded,  and  Gervase  felt  slightly 
mystified;  but  neither  of  them  vouchsafed  any  further 
explanation. 

Desmond,  so  far,  had  made  no  statement  at  all,  since 
saying  that  Johnstone  had  died  of  fright.  That,  and 
the  presence  of  the  apron,  were  evidence  that  he  had 
been  present  when  the  death  took  place,  or  shortly 
after.  But  he  reserved  his  defense  and  was  not  pres- 
ent at  the  inquest. 

A  commendable  discretion,  also,  was  displayed  by 
the  Coroner's  Court.  The  enquiry  was  cut  down  to 
the  narrowest  possible  limits  compatible  with  the  law; 
and  the  finding  of  the  jury,  who  had  no  wish  to  as- 
sociate themselves  with  the  Gotto  clique,  was  that  the 
body  was  that  of  -William  Johnstone,  the  clothes  and 
effects  those  of  Mrs.  Gervase  and  Mr.  Desmond,  and 
that  there  was  no  evidence  to  show  how  deceased  came 
by  his  death. 


256     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Teresa  was  called  as  a  witness,  but  declined  to  go 
into  the  box,  on  the  ground  that  she  was  reserving 
her  evidence  for  her  defense  before  another  court. 

That  green  baize  apron!  Dragged  from  its  ob- 
scurity, it  became  the  centre  of  devouring  interest. 
Such  a  clue,  such  a  case,  was  a  real  boon  to  press  and 
public;  and  it  leapt  from  the  dimness  of  local  obscurity 
to  the  blinding  light  of  a  cause  celebre  and  a  yellow- 
press  stunt.  Lower  Domain,  hitherto  "the  world  for- 
getting, by  the  world  forgot,"  became  the  haunt  of 
those  hacks  of  the  baser  papers  who  seek  sensational 
(and  nearly  always  mis-reported)  interviews,  silly  and 
offensive  photos,  and  spicy  "pars." 

"Somebody  did  ought  to  put  one  of  they  chaps  in 
the  pond,"  opined  Tenterley.  "It'ud  be  a  lesson." 
But  the  bulk  of  the  population  preferred  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  their  own  sage  words,  and  profound 
suggestions,  and  unimpressive  physiognomies,  in  print. 
Lower  Domain  found  itself  in  the  limelight,  as  it  had 
not  done  even  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Desmond's  dis- 
appearance; and  it  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  sensation. 

Needless  to  say,  Lord  Gotto  gave  interviews  to  every- 
one. The  press  representatives,  however,  so  systema- 
tically watered  down  or  edited  his  altogether  outra- 
geous and  libellous  remarks,  as  to  provoke  him  to 
declare  that  they  were  all  in  the  disgraceful  conspiracy 
to  protect  Mr.  Desmond  and  defeat  the  ends  of  justice. 
It  is  incontestable  that,  had  any  of  the  representatives 
aforesaid  caused  to  be  published  verbatim,  the  re- 
markably frank  and  abusive  statements  of  the  noble 
lord,  he,  they,  and  their  papers  would  have  found  them- 


THE  TRAP  257 

selves  involved  in  proceedings  for  libel,  slander,  defa- 
mation, and  contempt  of  court;  but  the  pungency  of 
the  remarks  was  beyond  question,  and  Lord  Gotto 
was  right  in  declaring  that  they  would  have  been  of 
the  greatest  interest  to  a  very  wide  circle. 

Seldom  had  so  much  drama  been  crowded  into  so 
little  space.  There  was  the  truth  about  Mr.  Desmond 
— and  the  green  baize  apron — that  would  come  out  at 
last.  There  were  revelations  about  Mrs.  Gervase  and 
her  wild  doings,  and  the  husband  of  whom  no  one  had 
ever  heard  anything.  There  was  the  fate  of  Willie 
Johnstone,  and  the  murder  of  the  other  man  buried 
near  Farmer  Johnstone's  shed  3.  There  was  the  secret 
passage.  There  was  the  dangerous  illness  of  Mrs. 
Desmond,  plainly  the  result  of  her  husband's  arrest. 
And  there  was  Lady  Katherine,  mixed  up  in  it  all. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  and  it  is  no  reflection  on 
their  really  kind  and  loyal  hearts,  that  the  inhabitants 
of  Lower  Domain  were  prepared  to  enjoy,  since  such 
things  had  to  happen,  the  things  that  had  happened  in 
their  midst;  and  this  did  not  in  any  way  lessen  their 
deep  sympathy  with  Lady  Katherine  and  Mrs.  Des- 
mond. The  popular  hope  was  that  Mr.  Desmond 
might  be  cleared,  but  that  Mrs.  Gervase  might  get  her 
deserts.  Farther  than  that  they  did  not  go;  there  was 
a  great  lack  of  enlightening  theories  or  explanations. 

Amos  Johnstone -was  silly  with  excitement,  and  it 
seemed  not  unlikely  that  his  destination,  after  all, 
would  be  the  Asylum.  He  wandered  about  with  fussy, 
trotting  steps,  found  it  impossible  to  sit  still  for  two 
minutes  together,  and  kept  a  constant  vigil  outside  the 


258    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

police-station,  where  he  poured  out  a  trickle  of  foolish 
questions. 

People  flocked  over  to  the  grubby  little  town  of 
Gorlett  for  the  enquiry.  The  Court  would  not  hold  all, 
or  nearly  all,  of  those  who  thronged  round  it,  greedy 
for  sensation,  picking  up  and  passing  round  every 
likely  and  unlikely  story  that  imagination  could  coin. 

Among  the  few  sparse  fragments  of  truth,  it  was 
said  that  Mrs.  Desmond  was  dying  and  that  Teresa 
was  turning  King's  evidence. 

Mr.  Talbot  was  not  able  to  prevent  it.  The  case 
for  the  Crown  was  considered  weak,  and  any  evidence 
there  might  be  against  Mrs.  Gervase  would  involve 
lesser  offenses  than  murder.  So  it  was  decided  to  use 
her  evidence  for  the  prosecution. 

It  was  her  own  shameless  vileness  that  damaged  that 
evidence  and  helped  to  break  down  the  case  for  the 
Crown.  Her  strongly-displayed  animus  against  the 
man  who  was  the  father  of  her  children,  her  frank 
admission  of  pursuit  and  persecution  and  threats  of 
exposure,  of  his  efforts  to  evade  her  and  his  defiance 
of  her,  created  an  impression  only  natural  under  the 
circumstances. 

On  the  top  of  that  came  the  story  of  the  sealed  docu- 
ment handed  by  Lady  Katherine  to  Desmond's  lawyer, 
and  supported  by  an  affidavit  from  Lady  Katherine 
herself. 

The  bottom  was  completely  knocked  out  of  the  case. 

"I  do  not  think  it  would  be  possible,"  said  Mr.  Tal- 
bot, with  grave  severity,  ato  find  a  jury  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land,  who  would  convict  on  the 


THE  TRAP  259 

evidence  of  such  a  witness.  The  prisoner  is  dis- 
charged. There  is  no  case  on  which  to  commit  him 
for  trial.  I  will  not  add  any  words  that  will  make  his 
burden  heavier,  for  whatever  he  may  have  done  con- 
trary to  law  and  good  order,  he  has  paid  for  over  and 
over  again.  I  shall  communicate  with  the  Attorney 
General  with  a  view  to  a  charge  of  perjury  against  this 
witness;  and  I  desire  to  express  the  sympathy  of  the 
Court  with  the  victim  of  her  accusation  and  with  the 
honourable  family  whose  name  has  been  so  unde- 
servedly besmirched  by  this  unworthy  member  of  it. 

"You  are  discharged,"  said  Mr.  Talbot,  leaning  to- 
wards the  prisoner  and  speaking  with  extraordinary 
consideration. 

It  was  the  second  time  he  had  said  it.  Mr.  Des- 
mond did  not  seem  to  understand. 

The  Rector  was  at  his  side,  leading  him  away,  before 
he  collected  himself,  and  he  was  driven  home  without 
any  lingering. 

In  the  room  where  Kythe  and  Gervase  had  seen 
his  strong  control  break  down;  the  room  where  his 
wife  had  come  to  him  in  his  shame  and  agony;  he  sat 
alone,  waiting  for  the  doctor's  verdict. 

He  had  been  told,  the  day  before,  when  the  enquiry 
opened,  of  his  wife's  dangerous  condition,  and  the  op- 
eration that  had  become  horribly  necessary.  Dr.  Wil- 
lett  was  upstairs  now,  with  two  strange  men  and  a 
nurse.  May  was  sobbing  helplessly,  Mrs.  Raymond 
waiting  to  see  what  use  she  could  be,  Lennox,  Luttrell 
and  Hubert  crowding  aimlessly  and  miserably  in  the 
playroom  with  Hero. 


26o    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Alone  he  sat,  refusing  all  company,  staring  out  into 
the  garden,  going  over  the  strange  story  told  in  the 
Court  that  day  and  the  day  before,  ranging  among  his 
bitter  memories,  seeing  ever  and  again  the  hideous 
scenes  in  which  he  had  figured,  through  which  he  had 
lived,  the  hell  in  which  he  had  agonised;  and  wonder- 
ing why  he  had  not  killed  the  woman  who  had  brought 
him  to  it. 

She  had  not  only  brought  him  to  agony  and  despair; 
she  had  brought  Honoria  to  it  too.  She  had  killed 
Honoria.  His  hands  clenched,  and  the  tell-tale  scar 
reddened  and  glistened. 

He  touched  it  with  his  fingers  to  still  its  throbbing. 

It  was  that  scar  that  had  saved  him.  Teresa  had 
forgotten ! 

The  enquiry  had  dragged  all  to  light. 

Desmond  remembered  the  various  phases  of  it,  but 
hardly  as  if  they  concerned  him. 

He  remembered  listening  to  Teresa's  vicious  account, 
with  its  artful  suppressions  and  eliminations,  hearing 
her  dotting  the  i's,  crossing  the  t's,  underlining  the 
meanings,  that  were  to  condemn  him;  owning  to  her 
love  for  him — her  shameful  love  because  he  was  like 
another  man  she  had  loved — damning  him  deeper  with 
every  word. 

He  heard  the  change  in  his  counsel's  voice,  the  little 
lilt  of  triumph,  when  he  asked, 

"Did  the  prisoner  give  you  active  assistance  in  all 
this — in  undressing  and  re-dressing  the  corpse,  in  get- 
ting out  by  the  exit  at  the  Homestead  Farm?" 


THE  TRAP  261 

"Yes."     An  unhesitating  yes. 

"In  spite  of  his  serious  condition?" 

"Do  you  mean  his  danger  of  arrest?" 

"Very  smart,  Mrs.  Gervase.  But  not  smart  enough. 
I  refer  to  his  physical  condition.  Come  now,  will  you 
tell  the  Court  how  he  came  by  that  scar  on  his  head, 
who  the  half -conscious  man  was  who  was  helped  into 
Johnstone's  waggon,  and  who  the  man  was  who  helped 
him  in?  And  how,  if  that  man  were  the  prisoner,  he 
could  have  taken  part  in  any  act  requiring  strength  or 
exertion?" 

And  as  Teresa  made  no  answer  to  this  broadside, 
counsel  continued, 

"We  will  call  Amos  Johnstone  presently.  He  will 
tell  us  what  he  can,  and  I  think  it  will  be  sufficient." 

Desmond  remembered  it,  word  for  word,  as  he  stood 
staring  out  of  the  window  into  the  garden — the  garden 
from  which  he  had  gone  out  that  fateful  day.  It  was 
not  the  scene  in  the  Court  that  was  real;  it  was  those 
other  scenes  recalled  from  the  past,  whipped  into  vivid 
life  by  that  woman's  tongue. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  gone  down  the  lane, 
lightly  and  unheedingly;  he  could  hear  the  garden  door 
slam  behind  him.  He  remembered,  as  he  had  told  his 
sister,  seeing  an  errand-boy  come  whistling  out  of  The 
Domain  garden  door,  and  go  lazily  down  to  the  village 
street,  without  turning  his  head.  The  Domain  garden 
door  failed  to  give  that  familiar  suck  and  plug;  it  had 
not  shut.  He  saw  it,  standing  ajar. 

He  remembered  the  impulse  of  idle,  boyish  curiosity, 


262    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

on  which  he  had  peeped  in.  Peeped  in  and  seen  noth- 
ing; and  then  hastily  withdrawn,  rather  ashamed  of 
but  amused  at  himself  and  his  impulse. 

And  then  he  had  heard  a  sort  of  cry,  and  peeped  in 
again. 

Turning  his  head  to  the  left,  he  saw  the  doorway 
of  the  Old  Tower.  On  the  threshold  sat  Teresa,  young, 
audacious,  alluring,  her  foreign,  expressive  face  twisted 
as  if  in  pain. 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself?"  he  asked,  moved  to  ex- 
plain his  presence.  "I  thought  I  heard  someone  call." 

"I  have  hurt  my  knee,"  complained  Teresa,  in  her 
rich,  warm  voice.  She  stared  at  him  as  if  startled.  It 
was  the  sight  of  him  peeping  in,  as  he  got  to  know 
afterwards,  that  startled  her  and  made  her  slip  on  the 
step. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "at  first  I  thought  you 
were — someone  quite  different!  You  gave  me  a 
fright!" 

"Can't  I  help  you?"  he  asked,  itching  to  do  some- 
thing useful. 

"Yes.    Help  me  down  this  stair,  please." 

Surprised,  he  helped  her  to  her  feet. 

He  could  feel  her  now,  in  his  arms,  feigning  help- 
lessness, clinging  to  him  for  support.  She  was  warm 
and  supple;  the  feel  of  her  hair  in  his  face,  her  body 
against  his,  was  an  adventure.  Her  face,  now  laugh- 
ing, now  pre-occupied,  and  then  twisted  up  again  to 
sham  pain — she  had  only  given  her  knee  a  little  graze 
—was  as  tempting  as  a  face  could  be,  with  its  wide 
smile,  its  warm  youth. 


THE  TRAP  263 

He  helped  her  down,  with  the  leathern  case  and 
parcel  that  she  was  carrying. 

She  opened  a  door,  in  the  dark;  and  stumbled  with 
him  down  some  steps,  fumbling  with  the  door  and 
then  swinging  it  to  behind  them.  He  looked  round 
in  surprise,  at  the  long,  low,  roughly-furnished  room. 

His  face  scorched  still  as  he  remembered  how  it 
went  on. 

She  sat  on  the  table  beside  him,  holding  on  to  him, 
pulling  down  her  silk  stocking  to  show  her  grazed 
knee.  Was  ever  a  man  caught  in  such  a  toil  so  easily? 

It  was  dark;  only  lighted  by  one  candle.  She  held 
him  fast;  told  him  she  was  afraid;  afraid  of  some- 
thing he  did  not  know  of;  something  that  had  hap- 
pened. A  dreadful  thing — she  could  not  tell  him,  but 
she  was  afraid. 

He  did  not  know,  he  never  knew,  how  long  he  stayed 
there,  comforting  her,  laughing  with  her — making  love 
to  her.  That  dreadful  love-making — his  face  scorched 
at  the  thought  of  it. 

"Haven't  I  got  pretty  knees?"  she  said. 

He  remembered  how  he  answered — remembered  how 
the  infamy  of  it  came  home  to  him  in  a  flash,  of  the 
honour  and  loyalty  he  was  being  lured  to  forget.  He 
remembered  how  he  made  for  the  door,  and  heard 
her  tremulous,  frightened  laugh — for  she  was  fright- 
ened, of  something  he  did  not  understand.  He  re- 
membered getting  the  clumsy  door  to  open  across  the 
steps;  and  stepping  up  into  the  cellar. 

Something  moved  in  front  of  him,  and  he  stopped  for 
an  instant.  A  light  flashed  into  his  eyes,  dazzling  him. 


264    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

The  dark  form  confronting  him  made  an  inarticulate 
sound,  and  then  with  a  furious  oath  struck  at  him. 

He  remembered  the  blow,  and  the  rain  of  sparks  it 
seemed  to  shower  round  him,  or  strike  off  him.  It 
gave  him  a  momentary  surprise.  He  heard  the  thud 
of  his  own  fall;  and  the  fall  or  ring  of  something 
metal  on  stone  paving.  He  knew  no  more,  till  the 
maddening  pain,  as  of  a  screw  twisting  in  his  head, 
brought  him  to  a  wretched  and  confused  conscious- 
ness. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   SCAR 

THE  girl  was  huddled  beside  him,  holding  his  head, 
round  which  she  had  wrapped  a  towel.  It  had  been 
bleeding  heavily;  his  neck  was  sticky  with  blood. 

She  gave  him  water,  which  revived  him  consider- 
ably. He  was  a  healthy,  powerful  man;  and  though 
he  felt  stupid  and  confused,  and  was  in  acute  pain, 
he  began  to  feel  that  he  had  not  been  so  severely  in- 
jured as  might  have  been  the  case. 

The  girl  was  frankly  terrified;  and  in  her  relief  at 
his  recovery,  nestled  against  him,  holding  his  head  in 
her  arms,  kissing  his  lips  alluringly.  He  was  too  con- 
fused to  repel  her;  and  presently  he  felt  drowsy  and 
dozed.  When  he  roused  himself,  and  got  to  his  feet, 
and  she  helped  him  into  a  chair  by  the  table,  he  began 
to  think  of  what  he  had  better  do. 

If  he  went  back,  the  murderous  attack  in  the  cellar 
might  be  renewed!  Who  it  was,  that  waited  and 
watched  there,  neither  of  them  knew.  The  mystery 
of  it  baffled  and  xdaunted  them,  and  he  remembered 
how  he  became  acutely  conscious  that  she  had  some 
knowledge  of  possible  dangers  which  he  did  not  pos- 
sess, and  that  his  momentary  impulse  of  childish  cur- 

265 


266    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

iosity  had  landed  him  in  a  position  more  serious  than 
he  cared  to  think  of. 

He  remembered  the  half -guilty  start  with  which  he 
heard  the  approach  of  footsteps  from  beyond  the  fur- 
ther door  at  the  other  end  of  the  long,  low  room.  The 
girl  clutched  him  with  gripping  hands  round  his 
shoulders;  he  rose  to  his  feet,  the  towel  falling  from 
his  head;  a  fresh  trickle  of  blood  crawled  down  his 
cheek  and  ear.  His  arm  was  round  her  waist.  They 
stood,  as  if  in  the  most  intimate  relation,  waiting; 
their  eyes  glued  to  the  door,  which  opened  slowly  and 
cautiously. 

The  man  who  came  in  was  Willie  Johnstone.  He 
stood  a  moment  as  if  struck  with  paralysis.  No  sound 
came  from  his  open  mouth. 

Then  he  flung  an  arm  across  his  eyes.  A  cry  that 
was  neither  a  word  nor  a  shout;  and  then  a  hoarse, 
protesting  call. 

"Craven!     No.     Ah— no!" 

The  last  word  was  a  scream,  and  he  fell  backwards. 

He  was  dead  when  they  reached  him. 

Desmond  did  not  know  how  long  they  spent,  trying 
desperately  to  restore  the  stricken  man.  He  seemed 
to  live  life  after  life  in  that  dim  underground  region. 

He  tried  to  go  for  help;  but  she  prevented  him. 
His  head  ached  and  throbbed,  and  bled  incessantly. 
His  brain  grew  dizzy  with  perplexed  thought.  He 
had  no  strength  left  to  move  or  to  decide.  He  lay 
down  on  a  rough  camp  bed  to  try  to  think  things  over. 

The  girl  crept  into  his  arms.  His  blood  raced  as  he 
remembered 


THE  SCAR  267 

She  told  him  then  what  had  happened,  what  had 
led  up  to  this,  what  she  was  afraid  of.  It  had  to  be 
told  him  over  and  over  again,  before  he  could  grasp 
the  ins  and  outs  of  it. 

The  man  he  was  like,  whom  she  called  Craven,  had 
been  her  lover,  a  year  ago.  She  was  expelled  from 
school  on  account  of  him.  He  was  a  brute,  she  said; 
his  temper,  his  language,  his  threats;  a  friend  he 
brought  with  him;  she  grew  terrified  of  them  both. 
Willie  Johnstone  was  one  of  their  tools;  they  used  the 
market-waggon  for  getting  about  in,  at  night.  Teresa 
had  found  the  door  in  the  cellar,  discovered  the  lock, 
fitted  the  piece  of  cork  into  the  keyhole  to  disguise  it; 
and  had  come  in  unexpectedly  on  the  gang,  who  had 
found  the  other  entrance  near  Farmer  Johnstone's  shed. 
They  had  not  suspected  the  existence  of  the  inner  cel- 
lar door,  as,  when  closed,  it  fitted  into  the  wall  without 
a  trace. 

They  were  receivers  of  stolen  goods.  Craven  fell 
in  love  with  Teresa,  and  she  joined  them  and  stood  in 
with  them,  enjoying  the  illicit  excitement  of  their  peril- 
ous trade.  They  had  lately  had  reason  to  believe  they 
were  marked  down,  and  were  making  all  their  plans 
for  getting  away.  Craven,  said  Teresa,  was  jealous 
of  young  Johnstone,  and  meanly  accused  the  lad  of 
being  the  one  who  had  given  them  away.  Johnstone, 
who  was  also  jealous  of  Craven — the  girl  had  evidently 
pitted  one  against  the  other  in  her  unscrupulous  in- 
trigues— then  quarrelled  violently  with  Craven.  They 
had  fought  near  the  farm  sheds  and  Craven  had  been 
quite  unexpectedly  and  unintentionally  killed. 


268    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Johnstone  was  half  mad  with  terror  at  what  he  had 
done.  He  hid  the  body  temporarily  under  some  rub- 
bish in  the  sheds,  and  found  Teresa  in  the  cellar. 
Both  of  them  were  at  their  wits'  end,  between  their 
dread  of  an  accusation  of  murder  and  the  imminent 
peril  of  arrest  for  the  original  offence  of  theft  in  which 
they  believed  they  stood;  and  Craven's  other  mate, 
who  also  knew  how  to  gain  access  to  the  underground 
tunnel,  came  upon  them  before  they  had  formed  any 
plan  or  summoned  up  courage  to  deal  with  the  corpse. 
In  the  early  hours  of  that  dreadful  morning  the  two 
men  dug  a  shallow  grave  under  the  manure  heaps,  and 
buried  Craven  there,  where  he  had  been  killed,  using 
the  manure  to  scatter  about  and  obliterate  all  foot- 
marks and  traces,  and  arranging  with  Amos  Johnstone 
to  take  the  cart  out  himself  that  evening,  and  leave 
them  the  night  free.  The  little  man  was,  of  course,  in 
complete  ignorance  of  the  tragedy. 

The  other  man,  who  carried  out  all  the  dealings 
with  Amos,  told  him  that  his  son  was  in  fresh  trouble, 
and  arranged  for  the  cart  to  be  available  the  next 
night  to  take  them  up  to  town,  whence  they  intended 
to  get  away  from  the  country.  Teresa  knew  where 
some  of  the  valuables  were  stowed,  and  her  business 
the  afternoon  that  Desmond  came  upon  her,  was  to 
get  these  packed  in  readiness  for  the  journey.  She 
was  well  aware  that  this  mate  of  Craven's  would  have 
no  hesitation  in  doing  her  out  of  her  share  if  he  got 
the  chance,  or  in  taking  his  revenge  on  her  if  she  played 
him  false,  and  she  was  beginning  to  feel  desperate. 


THE  SCAR  269 

The  sight  of  Desmond,  peeping  in  at  the  garden  door, 
scared  her  afresh,  so  that  she  slipped  and  fell.  He 
had  a  curious  likeness  in  build  and  colour  to  Craven, 
who,  moreover,  often  used  a  leathern  apron.  The 
green  baize  apron  gave  the  slight  likeness  a  stronger 
accentuation. 

Johnstone  must  have  seen  the  uncanny  likeness, 
just  as  Teresa  did,  to  the  man  he  had  killed  and  buried. 
Craven  had  been  struck  on  the  head;  the  blood  run- 
ning down  Desmond's  face,  his  attitude  with  Teresa  in 
his  arms,  helped  the  illusion. 

Sheer  fright  must  have  killed  him. 

Much  of  the  story — the  worst  part — the  criminal 
part,  the  tale  of  Teresa's  tricks  and  intrigues  and 
shameless  liaisons,  of  the  clashing  tempers  and  alter- 
nating fits  of  passion  and  hatred,  the  thieving  and  ly- 
ing, the  bribing  of  poor  old  Amos  with  promises  of 
help  for  his  scapegrace  son,  was  withheld;  but  enough 
was  got  into  Desmond's  head  to  turn  him  dizzy  with 
horror.  Here  he  was,  mixed  up  in  this  most  awful 
business;  how  he  was  going  to  get  out  of  it  without 
an  appalling  expose,  he  could  not  think.  And  his  head 
was  aching;  and  the  girl  was  clinging  to  him  and 
kissing  him;  and  he  could  not  remember  clearly  how 
far  she  had  lured  him  in  her  wanton  love-making — he 
shrank  from  attempting  to  remember;  and  outside  the 
door — his  only  way  of  escape — was  a  murderous  en- 
emy, perhaps  still  waiting  to  complete  his  work! 

Johnstone's  death  necessarily  imperilled  the  gang's 
escape;  and  Teresa's  mind  ran  on  the  anger  of  the 


270    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

third  man,  Craven's  mate,  whose  plans  would  be  up- 
set. She  dreaded  what  he  might  do  in  his  anger,  if 
thwarted. 

By  the  time  he  arrived,  furious  and  foul-mouthed, 
but  stricken  into  silence  by  the  sight  of  dead  John- 
stone  and  the  story  of  the  assault  on  Desmond  at  the 
cellar  door,  Desmond's  senses  had  wandered  away,  and 
he  was  only  half  conscious  of  his  surroundings. 

The  position  Teresa  and  this  man  were  now  faced 
with  was  that  someone  else  knew  of  the  cellar  entrance, 
and  knew  that  Desmond  was  within  it. 

Who  it  was  that  had  watched  and  waited  there  and 
made  the  murderous  attack  was  a  profound  mystery 
and  a  great  danger.  Amos  Johnstone,  miserably  an- 
xious about  his  son,  was  willing  to  do  anything  they 
wanted;  the  safest  thing  was  to  get  away.  So,  col- 
lecting the  valuables,  and  half-carrying  Desmond,  they 
made  their  way  by  the  other  exit  into  the  sheds,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  Amos  Johnstone,  got  Desmond 
safely  stowed  in  the  waggon. 

Standing  over  the  frightened  girl,  the  bully  gave  his 
orders.  Desmond  was  to  be  Craven  for  the  time  be- 
ing; that  would  still  the  tongues  of  any  of  the  other 
associates  who  might  get  to  hear  that  the  party  was 
one  short.  With  brutal  oaths,  that  echoed  dimly  in 
Desmond's  fuddled  head,  he  forced  her  to  help  him 
strip  the  corpse  and  put  on  its  clothes.  Desmond's 
green  baize  apron  was  rolled  up  and  tossed  down  be- 
side it. 

Desmond  was  covered  with  an  old  coat  of  Craven's, 


THE  SCAR  271 

hiding  his  blood-stained  shirt;  and  a  cap  pulled  down 
over  his  bandaged  head.  Amos  Johnstone,  who 
thought  the  staggering  gentleman  was  Craven,  and 
attributed  his  condition  to  drink,  and  who  never  for 
one  moment  associated  him  with  Desmond,  received 
with  gratification  Teresa's  assurance  that  Willie  would 
come  and  say  good-bye  to  him  in  a  day  or  two,  and  that 
she  and  Craven  would  look  after  him  in  Australia  and 
see  that  he  was  all  right,  undertaking  also  to  do  their 
very  best  to  keep  him  out  of  reach  of  the  law.  And  so 
they  left  Lower  Domain,  without  a  thing  to  cast  sus- 
picion on  them. 

When  Desmond  recovered  his  wandering  senses,  he 
was  lying  in  a  frowsy  bunk,  two  days  out  at  sea. 
Teresa  and  the  ruffian  who  gave  them  orders,  were  with 
him.  Later  on  she  was  alone  with  him. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  before  his  mind  cleared  com- 
pletely, and  the  extent  of  his  misfortunes  came  home 
to  him.  By  that  time,  it  was  taken  for  granted  that 
Teresa  was  his  woman;  he  could  not  free  himself 

His  physical  weakness  was  far  less  than  the  state 
of  his  mind  would  have  indicated.  It  was  his  brain 
that  seemed  in  a  fashion  numbed.  What  with  the 
blow  and  the  high  temperature,  and  the  shock,  both 
mental  and  physical,  he  could  not  straighten  out  his 
thoughts.  When  he  did,  they  nearly  drove  him  mad. 

The  big  ruffian  exercised  a  sort  of  supervision.  The 
girl,  for  all  her  audacity,  was  afraid  of  him,  as  she  had 
been  of  the  man  with  whom  she  had  so  fatally  en- 
tangled herself,  and  at  whose  death  she  secretly  re- 


272     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

joiced.  Yet  she  had  loved  him,  in  a  way.  His  per- 
son attracted  her;  and  it  was  the  same  attraction  that 
proved  Desmond's  undoing. 

She  took  refuge  with  him  from  the  other  man.  At 
night,  lying  in  his  arms,  exercising  all  her  allurements, 
she  fascinated  him  with  her  charm,  and  sickened  him 
with  her  precocious  depravity.  The  sneering  ruffian 
would  come  in  on  them,  at  any  moment;  with  a  brutal 
laugh,  or  a  more  brutal  sneer  or  a  silent  cold  scrutiny 
worse  than  either.  He  was  supposed  to  share  the  cab- 
in with  them. 

The  nightmare  voyage  seemed  to  last  into  eternity. 
It  always  had  been,  always  would  be;  nothing  else 
had  ever  been,  all  else  was  a  figment  of  the  most  fan- 
tastic imagination.  That  alone  was  reality. 

The  big  ruffian  was  always  suspicious  of  him. 

When  they  landed,  and  Desmond  wanted  to  take 
the  next  ship  back,  the  position  was  brutally  explained 
to  him.  If  he  went  back,  he  could  give  them  away. 
The  big  man  wasn't  "taking  any  chances."  Either 
he  stayed  where  he  was  and  "looked  after"  Teresa,  or 
he  would  be  accused  of  the  murder  of  Willie  John- 
stone. 

The  months  he  spent  with  the  depraved  girl,  the 
horror  with  which  he  looked  on  the  children  he  begot, 
the  aching,  gnawing  longing  for  what  he  had  lost,  his 
escape,  the  tracking  down,  and  the  false  charge  of 
murder  of  the  blackmailing  brute  she  sent  after  him, 
brought  and  almost  proven  against  him;  the  verdict  of 
manslaughter,  the  penal  sentence,  the  subsequent  years 
of  pursuit,  persecution,  privation,  toil,  the  growing 


THE  SCAR  273 

knowledge  that  he  had  lost  all  chance  of  going  home 
with  any  conceivable  explanation,  the  shame  at  his 
record — it  all  came  back  in  waves  of  heat  and  cold, 
of  anger  and  desperation.  The  sight  of  the  announce- 
ment of  Teresa's  death — he  remembered  that,  too;  and 
how  he  had  made  for  home  like  a  hunted  beast,  with 
the  audacity  of  despair. 

In  all  that  life  of  horror,  after  he  worked  free  of 
the  confused  impressions  of  the  voyage,  what  kept 
him  going  was  the  beacon-light  of  home.  Shining 
through  gloom  indescribable,  it  lighted  him  to  effort 
after  effort  at  securing  his  freedom.  The  death  by 
violence  of  the  ruffian  who  helped  Teresa  keep  her 
strangle-hold  on  his  life,  reduced  the  witnesses  against 
him  to  one;  and  memory  of  his  home,  the  home  he 
had  lost,  the  wife,  the  babies,  stood  out  in  clearer  and 
yet  clearer  relief — clean,  pure  things,  to  recover  which 
he  vainly  and  pantingly  struggled. 

And  his  return,  to  a  family  of  strangers  with  whom 
he  had  little  in  common,  who  shrank  from  his  coarsened 
fibre,  whose  fastidious  perceptions  sensed  the  convict 
and  the  outcast;  the  wife  who  wore  a  widow's  cap, 
and  who  had  borne  a  child  he  had  never  known;  the 
grown-up  sons  incensed  at  their  mother's  position,  the 
censure  of  the  neighbours  and  old  friends — that  home- 
coming had  been  bitterer  far  than  exile. 

The  new  and  sterner  forms  of  manliness  which  he 
had  perforce  learned  among  the  criminal  riff-raff  and 
the  hardy  pioneers  with  whom  his  lot  had  cast  him, 
and  with  whom  he  had  grit  enough  to  "make  good" 
and  prove  himself  a  man  indeed,  enabled  him  to  keep 


274    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

his  feelings  to  himself,  to  drink  the  cup  to  the  dregs 
without  a  wry  face,  and  to  keep  his  hideous  secrets. 
Never  by  word  or  phrase,  since  coming  home,  had  he 
betrayed  himself,  or  let  fall  a  clue  to  his  wanderings. 

The  return  of  Teresa,  triumphant  in  her  last  intrigue, 
the  knowledge  that  the  boy  and  girl  so  securely  en- 
sconced at  The  Domain  and  on  the  most  intimate  terms 
with  his  wife's  children,  were  those  illegitimate  chil- 
dren from  the  thought  of  whose  very  existence  he 
shrank,  hit  him  so  hard  it  was  a  miracle  that  he  was 
able  to  keep  his  balance.  Yet  still  he  kept  his  lips 
closed,  his  face  unmoved.  No  man,  surely,  ever  lived 
through  such  an  ordeal. 

The  threat  Teresa  still  held  over  him,  the  silence 
she  half -promised  as  the  price  of  renewing  his  rela- 
tions with  her,  the  terrifying  assurance  that  he  was 
the  only  man  she  had  really  loved,  and  that  she  would 
rather  see  him  hanged  than  living  happily  with  his 
wife,  were  mere  details  in  the  general  horror. 

In  open  court,  before  his  three  sons,  his  daughter, 
his  sister  and  her  husband,  his  old  friend,  the  story 
had  been  told  to  the  last  bitter  word.  What  Teresa's 
statement  suppressed,  Desmond's  revealed.  And  the 
dramatic  climax  was  the  disclosure  of  the  mystery  to 
which  no  clue  had  been  found  till  then — the  story  of 
the  blow  on  the  head  that  had  felled  Desmond  when 
emerging  from  the  secret  cellar  door. 

The  document  handed  to  his  solicitor  by  Lady  Kath- 
erine,  signed,  witnessed,  and  sealed  up  by  the  old 
Squire,  contained  the  explanation. 

A  word  dropped  by  Hugh,  who  in  his  workroom  in 


THE  SCAR  275 

the  Old  Tower  heard  more  than  Teresa  allowed  for, 
made  the  old  Squire  realise  that  Teresa  was  still  pros- 
ecuting her  low  intrigue  with  the  man  who  was  sup- 
posed to  belong  to  the  market-garden  confraternity. 
He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  man  in  an  apron  and  with 
rolled  up  sleeves;  craned  his  neck  and  saw  him  with 
his  arms  round  Teresa,  taking  her  down  the  Old  Tower 
cellar  steps. 

In  a  rage,  such  as  in  his  youthful  days  had  made 
men  fear  him,  the  Squire  sought  a  weapon.  In  one 
of  the  garden  houses  he  found  and  snatched  up  the 
loose  stove  bar.  Stealthily  following  and  lurking,  he 
crept  to  the  cellar,  but  could  hear  and  see  nothing. 
Twice  he  went  up  to  the  garden  and  came  down  again. 
The  second  time,  with  a  lantern  to  guide  his  search,  he 
met  the  man  in  the  apron  face  to  face,  apparently 
emerging  from  the  floor. 

The  old  Squire  was  a  powerful  as  well  as  a  passion- 
ate man.  He  struck  blindly  and  furiously.  Heard 
the  groan  and  fall,  and  the  rattle  of  the  weapon  that 
dropped  from  his  weakened  hand  as  he  realised  what 
he  had  done.  Could  make  out  nothing  definite,  in  the 
obscurity,  lighted  only  by  one  candle;  but  was  con- 
scious that  a  door  closed  silently  in  his  face. 

No  word  did  he  say  of  what  had  happened,  locking 
it  up  in  his  own  mind.  A  plausible  story  was  pre- 
sented to  the  neighbourhood  about  his  granddaughter's 
disappearance,  which  was  attributed  by  him  and  Lady 
{Catherine,  rightly,  to  a  disgraceful  elopement,  on  the 
subject  of  which  they  preserved  unbroken  silence.  Ev- 
ery help  was  rendered  in  the  search  for  the  missing  Mr. 


276    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

Desmond,  in  completely  disinterested  sympathy,  but 
when  the  description  of  that  gentleman,  and  the  tale 
of  the  green  baize  apron,  came  to  his  knowledge,  the 
Squire  knew  what  it  was  he  had  done. 

Divided  between  wrath  that  his  own  neighbour,  a 
married  man  with  a  family,  should  have  been  his  grand- 
daughter's guilty  lover,  and  dread  that  he  himself  was 
the  murderer  of  the  missing  man,  his  days  were  days 
of  torment  and  unrest.  Teresa's  letters,  mocking  and 
insolent,  gave  no  clue  to  the  Desmond  mystery;  and 
as  time  went  on,  the  conclusion  was  irresistible  that 
the  blow  had  caused  death. 

No  investigation  ever  enabled  him  to  discover  the 
secret  of  the  cellar  door.  He  searched  continually  and 
with  immense  precaution,  unwilling  to  share  with  any- 
one the  half -knowledge  he  possessed;  to  no  effect. 
Three  years  after  the  event,  he  told  his  wife  what  it 
was  that  was  preying  on  his  mind.  The  constant  sight 
of  the  bereaved  Desmond  family  overcame  his  resolu- 
tion to  keep  silence. 

Lady  Katherine  urged  him  to  place  the  facts  on 
record;  but  was  even  more  resolute  than  he  to  keep 
the  secret,  protect  their  name,  and  save  him  from  open 
trial.  If  Desmond  were  killed,  nothing  could  give  him 
back  to  Mrs.  Desmond.  If  he  had  gone  off  with  Ter- 
esa, by  some  underground  way,  better  that  Mrs.  Des- 
mond should  not  know. 

They  had  covered  up  Teresa's  elopement,  and  stifled 
the  scandal  by  methods  the  haughty  old  couple  hardly 
cared  to  discuss  even  between  themselves.  They  were 


THE  SCAR  277 

unused  to  intrigue  and  hated  lies  only  one  degree  less 
than  the  shame  of  open  scandal. 

And  it  remained  at  that,  but  an  ever-growing  weight 
of  conscience  burdened  the  old  lady's  soul  and  made 
her  scrupulously  considerate  and  protective  towards 
Mrs.  Desmond. 

It  was  this  blow,  with  the  corresponding  scar,  the 
finding  of  the  iron  stove-bar,  and  the  testimony  of 
Amos  Johnstone — that  he  had  helped  to  get  a  stagger- 
ing, half-conscious  man,  whom  he  took  to  be  Craven, 
into  his  waggon  that  fateful  night,  the  night  of  Mr. 
Desmond's  disappearance — that  gave  the  lie  to  Ter- 
esa's statement.  Her  tale  was  not  wholly  and  solely 
dictated  by  malice,  bad  though  it  was.  It  was,  in  part, 
self-preservation.  Judging  others  by  her  own  stand- 
ard, and  realising  that  her  brother  and  Mr.  Talbot 
were  disposed  to  assume  her  probable  guilt  under  al- 
most any  accusation,  she  was  not  sure  that  Desmond 
would  not  seize  the  opportunity  of  paying  her  back 
for  old  scores  by  laying  the  burden  of  the  murder  or 
murders  on  her  shoulders.  Under  such  circumstances, 
the  threat  held  over  him  so  long  became  an  effective 
and  necessary  weapon  of  defence  as  well  as  attack. 

In  her  evidence,  all  mention  of  the  man  who  was 
their  partner  and  their  task-master  was  suppressed. 
Desmond's  story,  which  included  such  a  person,  was, 
however,  sufficiently  corroborated  by  Amos  Johnstone 
to  be  accepted.  Amos  knew  very  little  about  the 
man,  and  had  only  seen  him  once  before;  his  memory 
was  hazy  and  he  mixed  him  up  continually  with  the 


278    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

dead  Craven.  In  conjunction  with  the  finding  of  re- 
mains which  in  all  probability  could  be  no  other  than 
Craven's,  and  added  to  the  dazed  little  man's  con- 
tinual reminders  to  the  Court  that  it  was  the  discovery 
that  those  remains  were  not  Mr.  Desmond's  that  first 
filled  him  with  suspicion  and  made  him  beg  to  have 
things  "cleared  up,"  Lady  Katherine's  evidence  se- 
cured Desmond's  complete  vindication. 
The  public  taste  for  sensation  was  indeed  gratified. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS 

MRS.  DESMOND  lay  dying.  Her  breath  came  in 
short  gasps,  her  fair  skin  was  darkened  and  coarsened, 
her  lips  purple  and  swollen.  All  day  she  moaned  and 
tossed  in  discomfort,  taking  little  heed  of  her  surround- 
ings, rousing  herself  to  a  gesture  or  word  of  recog- 
nition, or  a  faint,  shadowy  attempt  at  a  smile,  only  at 
the  sound  of  Kythe's  voice. 

The  bed,  tilted  at  the  foot  to  relieve  the  failing  heart, 
gave  a  comfortless  look  to  the  room.  Her  sons  and 
daughters,  strangling  with  their  grief,  felt  a  vague, 
helpless  anger  against  doctors  and  nurse,  who  stood 
between  them,  and  whose  ministrations  had  reduced 
her  to  this. 

"If  they  had  let  her  alone,  she  would  have  lived  long- 
er. It  would  not  have  been  like  this." 

So  they  raved,  ignorant  of  illness,  waving  aside  the 
chance — the  one  chance — of  life  chat  the  operation 
provided. 

Their  anger  rose  highest  against  their  father.  Great 
as  was  their  indignation  with  the  medical  men  and  the 
subservient  nurse,  their  real  resentment  centred  round 
their  father;  a  silent,  growing  force  of  resentment  that 

279 


28o    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

found  no  outlet  in  words,  but,  sullen  and  concentrated, 
penetrated  to  the  recesses  of  the  unhappy  man's  soul 
and  scorched  it. 

All  day,  he  sat  at  the  head  of  her  bed.  All  day  she 
lay,  moaning,  gasping,  tossing  restlessly,  calling  in- 
articulately, requiring  constant  readjustment  of  the  bed 
and  her  body,  in  the  intolerable  discomfort.  At  in- 
tervals he  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow  and  she  turned 
her  face  against  his.  No  word  passed  between  them. 

No  one  knew  what  had  passed.  None  could  say 
whether  all  had  been  made  clear,  or  whether  in  her 
great  love,  no  forgiveness  had  been  needed.  The 
sands  slipped  away  fast;  the  lethargy  induced  by  mor- 
phia, and  the  exhaustion  of  ebbing  life,  made  all  fur- 
ther confidence  impossible.  At  the  last  she  pushed 
him  away,  and  died  strangling,  struggling  for  air,  cry- 
ing out  in  hoarse  protest  or  pain,  refusing  to  acknowl- 
edge his  presence  or  his  touch,  her  last  glance  for 
Kythe.  A  huddled,  grey-faced  wreck,  he  left  the 
death-chamber,  without  a  trace  of  his  strong  self-con- 
trol. 

Kythe  came  to  him,  in  his  room  where  he  sat  at 
his  desk  with  his  head  on  his  arms.  He  looked  at  her 
in  hard  anger,  but  she  was  not  daunted. 

"You  are  to  drink  this,"  she  said  unflinchingly;  and 
stood  over  him  while  he  did  so. 

Her  face  was  disfigured  with  tears  and  bore  a  strange 
likeness  to  the  other  disfigured  face  that  had  tossed 
all  day  on  the  uncomforting  pillows.  He  wished, 
drearily,  that  she  did  not  hate  him,  and  forgot  his  own 
dislike  of  her  in  the  wish. 


KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  281 

She  was  so  like  Honoria — more  like  than  any  of 
them.  Honoria  loved  her  so  dearly  because — his 
thoughts  wandered,  as  he  tried  to  trace  the  because, 
back  to  his  disappearance,  his  misfortune,  his  anguish, 
his  martyrdom — it  all  began  over  again. 

"Father!"  Kythe  was  saying,  with  an  insistent  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "You  must  lie  down  here.  I  have 
got  the  sofa  ready  for  you.  Lie  down.  Take  these 
and  finish  your  soup." 

He  took  the  dose  meekly,  and  lay  down.  She  undid 
his  boots,  made  him  take  off  his  coat  and  braces;  and 
covered  him  with  a  big  rug. 

When  he  woke,  she  was  beside  him  with  a  cup  of  tea. 

All  the  dreadful  days  that  followed,  he  was  con- 
scious of  her  watchful  care.  His  brother  and  Lennox, 
and  the  Rector  and  Hermione,  looked  after  everything. 
He  was  not  allowed  to  see  his  wife  again;  the  face  was 
too  greatly  changed. 

He  stood  at  the  graveside,  dazed  and  wretched,  until 
the  end  of  the  ceremony.  When  he  tried  to  lock  him- 
self in  his  study,  after  getting  rid  of  Harry  and  Charley 
— what  good  fellows  they  were! — he  found  the  key  was 
missing. 

At  Tenterley's,  that  night,  the  village  Parliament  dis- 
cussed the  story  late  and  long.  While  divided  in  opin- 
ion on  some  of  the  points,  there  was  a  consensus  of 
gratification  that  Teresa  was  likely  to  be  proceeded 
against  for  perjury  and  get  some  part  of  what  she  de- 
served. 

"A good  job,  too,"  said  the  bird-seed  man. 


282     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"Ah,"  said  Constable  Thomas,  in  rich  agreement. 

"Pore  old  Johnstone,"  observed  a  young  man  who 
was  assistant  at  the  linen-draper's;  "he  didn't  really 
expeck  what  he  got,  I  don't  believe.  I  believe  that 
what  he  thought  was  that  if  he  pushed  'em  hard 
enough,  they'd  find  his  boy,  alive  and  not  dead." 

"He's  all  of  a  maze  still,"  remarked  Tenterley,  with 
his  usual  quiet  sympathy  for  sufferers.  "Can't  seem 
to  be  able  to  grasp  it,  that  his  pore  boy  was  lying  dead 
all  that  time;  and  folks  gooing  on  about  his  being  a 
bad  lad  and  crool  to  his  father  and  all  that.  He  gets 
that  upset,  thinking  back  on  all  that  talk,  you  wouldn't 
believe." 

"It's  to  be  hoped  that  Madam  will  get  what  she  de- 
sarve,"  said  the  bell-man.  "When  you  think  she  gooed 
off  and  left  the  young  fella  dead  and  never  gave  no 
word  to  the  old  man,  and  rigged  up  all  the  time  in  the 
clothes  off  his  dead  body,  and  knowing  all  the  time  as 
how  he'd  killed  the  other — well;  it  fair  takes  your 
breath  away — and  she  only  a  slip  of  a  girl!" 

"She  was  properly  frightened,  though,  by  that  chap 
as  made  her  do  it,"  ventured  the  postman,  between 
volumes  of  smoke  puffed  from  the  very  foulest  clay 
pipe  ever  allowed  to  defile  the  air. 

"Goo  on,"  said  Tenterley,  scornfully.  "Her  fright- 
ened! Not  her.  All  tark,  about  being  frightened. 
Put  him  up  to  it,  most  like." 

"Females  is  a  terror,"  opined  Constable  Thomas, 
"when  they's  made  that  way.  There's  things  a  man 
ud  never  do,  they'll  do  without  turning  a  hair." 

This  sentiment  was  received  with  favour. 


KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  283 

"And  if  it  comes  to  that,"  said  the  new  man,  who 
was  employed  at  Sutton's  the  plumber,  "there's  not 
much  to  be  said  for  the  old  lady,  either." 

No  one  but  a  new-comer  could  have  said  this.  They 
had  all  kept  their  tongues  off  Lady  Katherine. 

"She  did  a  pretty  hard-necked  thing,  you  know,"  he 
went  on,  unconscious  of  offence.  "Knoo  as  how  the 
old  gentleman  had  as  good  as  killed  someone,  and 
thought  it  must  be  Mr.  Desmond;  and  never  to  say  a 
word  all  those  years — why!  It's  pretty  disgraceful, 
I  think!  After  he  was  dead  and  all,  there  was  no 
excuse!" 

There  was  no  response  to  this.  They  shifted  their 
feet  uneasily,  and  sucked  at  their  pipes,  or  refilled  or 
relighted  them.  No  one  wished  to  join  in  blaming  Lady 
Katherine. 

"He's  had  bad  treatment,  he  has,  that  pore  gentle- 
man, first  and  last.  Not  a  living  soul  to  help  him  clear 
himself  or  free  himself;  everything  in  a  sort  of  conspir- 
acy to  tie  him  up — it  sounds  like  that  sort  of  a  bad 
dream  you  can't  wake  up  from.  And  now  his  wife,  pore 
lady,  that  must  have  had  a  sore  heart,  first  and  last; 
gone  before  she  known  he  was  cleared;  it's  a  cruel 
bad  business,  pore  things.  All  their  lives  gorn. 
Wasted  away  by  that  wicked,  good-for-nothing  bag- 
gage— who's  going  to  talk  about  a  'Good  God,'  when 
things  like  that  caniiappen,  so  unfair  and  so  onlucky!" 

"A  good  lady,  Mrs.  Desmond,"  murmured  Tenterley. 
"A  good,  kind  lady,  as  was  a  lady  and  behaved  as 
such." 

"Ah ! "  said  a  socialistically-disposed  person  who  was 


284    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

in  the  scavenging  department  of  the  local  Council. 
"She  was  a  nice  lady,  and  her  life  has  been  spylt.  And 
what  I  want  to  know  is "  here  he  directed  his  re- 
marks rather  pointedly  at  Constable  Thomas,  who  leant 
forward  in  his  favourite  attitude,  arms  on  his  knees, 
head  turned  a  little  sideways  and  enquiringly — "what 
I  want  to  know  is,  isn't  the  other  lady  going  to  be  dealt 
with?  I  don't  mean  this  precious  Mrs.  Gervase, 
which  she  isn't  'missis'  at  all:  she's  'miss';  but  milady 
over  there.  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Why?  Whatever  have  she  done  to  be  dealt 
with?"  asked  the  bird-seed  man,  aggressively,  while 
Tenterley  and  Constable  Thomas  exchanged  a  glance 
of  deep  understanding. 

"What  has  she  done?  She's  kept  silent  when  she 
ought  to  have  spoke.  I'm  not  saying  that  she  ought 
to  have  given  the  old  gentleman  away;  not  at  all. 
Wives  aren't  called  on  to  give  evidence  against  their 
husbands.  But  after  he  was  dead?  Come  now,  after 
he  was  dead,  and  the  other  lady  wondering  all  the 
time  what  become  of  her  husband;  oughtn't  milady 
to  have  spoken  then?  I  hold  she  ought;  and  if  it  had 
been  your  missis,  Tenterley,  instead  of  a  'Lady,'  she'd 
have  been  pulled  up  for  being  an  accessory  or  some- 
thing like  that.  What  I  say  is,  there's  one  law  for 
the  rich  and  one  for  the  poor,  and  none  of  you  can 
deny  it." 

This  speech  was  warmly  echoed  by  the  plumber's 
man  and  the  draper's  assistant,  and  they  asked  Con- 
stable Thomas  what  was  going  to  be  done  about  it. 

Constable  Thomas  shook  a  wary  head. 


KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  285 

"You  better  ask  Lord  Gotto,"  he  grinned.  "It's 
him  as  knoos  all  about  the  Law." 

That  started  them  off  again. 

"Old  Gotto,"  said  the  bird-seed  man,  quoting  his 
niece,  the  housemaid,  "was  talking  as  if  he  had  done  all 
the  discovering.  He  has  forgotten  how  he  had  gone 
on  about  its  being  young  Mr.  Marx  that  was  the  corpse 
and  Mr.  Desmond  that  was  the  murderer;  and  he  was 
shouting  all  day  long  at  everyone,  'What  did  I  tell 
you?  Didn't  I  say  so  from  the  first?  That  woman 
ought  to  get  fifteen  years,'  and  he  and  Mr.  Talbot  had 
quite  a  dust-up  over  it." 

"It's  a  bad  day  for  the  aristocracy  when  people  like 
Lord  Gotto  can  goo  and  call  theirself  lord,"  opined 
Tenterley.  "He  would  have  it,  the  silly  old  gas-bag, 
that  Mr.  Desmond,  he  had  murdered  young  Mr.  Marx; 
and  when  he  finds  that  pore  young  Johnstone,  he  mur- 
dered a  proper  blackguard  that  had  no  more  to  do 
with  Mr.  Marx  than  with  the  man  in  the  moon,  and 
that  Mr.  Desmond  he's  been  saddled  with  it  unjustly 
all  these  years,  then  he  goos  and  shouts  'I  said  so  all 
along.'  Doesn't  it  make  a  man  sick?" 

"Ah,"  came  the  sage  chorus,  in  varying  tones  of 
wisdom  and  agreement. 

"They  do  say,"  began  the  bird-seed  man  in  a  lowered 
voice,  "that  Major  Gervase,  he's  terrible  taken  up  with 
rittle  Miss  Desmond,  and  that  all  this,  and  his  sister 
having  those  two  children  to  Mr.  Desmond,  it  has 
put  them  off  and  no  one  will  allow  them  to  be  married. 
Did  you  hear  aught  about  it?"  to  Tenterley. 

Tenterley  nodded. 


286    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"A  bad  business,"  he  sighed. 

"Will  they  stay  here,  do  you  think?" 

No  one  could  say. 

"And  the  two  families  being  such  good  friends,  and 
all,"  continued  the  chatty  plumber.  "If  you  was  to 
read  it  in  one  of  these  novelettes,  you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve it.  I  wonder  what  Mr.  Desmond  felt  like,  when 
he  come  home  and  find,  first  his  natural-born  children 
all  running  in  and  out  of  his  home  with  his  other  chil- 
dren; and  then  the  woman  that  he  gone  off  with,  come 
back  and  meeting  him  in  Church  and  being  friendly 
with  his  wife — I  wouldn't  have  been  in  his  shoes!  My 
word,  I  wouldn't!" 

The  silence  was  impressive. 

"Could  they  get  married?"  asked  the  socialistic  scav- 
enger. "I  don't  see  why  not.  They  aren't  really  re- 
lated. Major  Gervase's  sister  lived  with  Mr.  Des- 
mond; it  don't  make  no  difference  to  Major  Gervase 
and  Mrs.  Desmond's  daughter " 

"Ah,"  said  Constable  Thomas,  getting  up  and 
straightening  himself.  "People  like  that — they 
couldn't  face  it.  They'd  never  allow  it.  Lady  Kath- 
erine — it  would  turn  her  blue;  and  bring  the  old  gentle- 
man out  of  his  grave." 

"A  lot  of  it  is  the  old  gentleman's  and  Lady.Kath- 
erine's  fault;  and  I  don't  see  why  the  Major  and  his 
little  lady  have  got  to  suffer  for  it.  It  would  be  more 
sensible,  and  more  Christian,  and  more  human,  if  they 
were  to  make  up  their  minds  to  let  bygones  be  bygones, 
and  to  put  it  all  behind  them.  Major  Gervase  is  a 
fine  gentleman  and  as  good  as  gold,  and  little  Miss 


KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  287 

Desmond,  I  never  hear  anything  but  good  of  her. 
The  servants  up  at  The  Meadows,  they  say  the  way 
she  nursed  her  mother,  and  the  way  she  looks  after 
her  father — it's  more  like  the  mother  of  a  family  than 
a  little  school  girl." 

These  questions  of  social  ethics  for  the  gentry  being 
manifestly  not  for  them  to  decide,  the  conversation 
glided  to  the  more  congenial  one  of  what  term  of  im- 
prisonment Teresa  was  likely  to  get.  And  a  further 
suggestion  from  the  postman,  who  was  a  stern  oppo- 
nent of  popery,  that  it  was  her  papish  upbringing  that 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  provoked  a  tremendous  dis- 
cussion, affording  vast  opportunity  for  the  socialistic 
and  scavenging  gentleman,  who  was  against  all  re- 
ligions; the  postman  being  nevertheless  able  to  show 
that  Hugh  and  Teresa  Gervase,  who  were  of  their 
mother's  Church,  had  both  turned  out  badly,  whereas 
the  Major,  who  always  held  by  the  Church  of  England, 
was  the  pick  of  the  bunch. 

"The  Pope,"  declared  the  postman,  warming  up  to 
his  favourite  topic,  "he's  at  the  bottom  of  more  than 
half  the  mischief  in  the  world." 

"Religions  is,"  asserted  the  socialistic  scavenger. 
"Pope,  or  priest,  or  parson,  or  preacher;  they  are  all 
alike.  When  we  get  rid  of  the  lot,  it  will  be  a  blessed 
day  for  the  old  world." 

In  an  overwhelming  catastrophe,  and  scandal,  such 
as  had  taken  the  Desmond  family  in  its  swirl,  it  is  a 
truly  bewildering  thing  for  the  chief  actors  or  victims 
to  find  how  they  can  go  on  with  the  usual  small  cere- 
monies and  duties  of  ordinary  life,  how  they  can  talk 


288     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

ordinary  talk,  discuss  ordinary  matters,  and  meet  each 
other,  and  other  people,  in  ordinary  fashion,  in  spite  of 
the  unordinary  events  that  have  invaded  their  routine. 
It  never  fails  to  surprise  the  actors  in  such  tragedies, 
when  they  find  themselves  unfolding  their  table-nap- 
kins and  eating  the  usual  meal  of  the  usual  courses; 
or  calling  out  in  the  morning  to  know  if  the  bath-room 
is  vacant,  or  worrying  because  there  are  traces  of  snails 
in  the  greenhouse.  They  are  seized  from  time  to  time 
with  a  sense  of  the  littleness  of  what  seemed  to  them 
so  monstrous,  the  fleeting  nature  of  the  emotions  that 
appeared  as  if  they  must  wipe  out  all  the  rest  of  life. 
They  feel  that  they  are  heartless,  shallow,  even  callous. 
And  sometimes  they  feel  that  the  "life"  of  which  they 
often  talk  with  so  little  understanding,  is  a  vast,  cold, 
unfeeling  machine  on  whose  wheels  they  are  hurried 
along  relentlessly ;  that  to  mourn  their  dead  adequately, 
to  pause  for  a  view  that  will  give  a  sane  perspective,  to 
tarry  for  a  space  in  contemplation  before  being  rushed 
over  the  threshold  of  some  new  experience,  is  alike  im- 
possible and  forbidden. 

The  Desmonds,  severally  and  collectively,  with  more 
or  less  of  acuteness  and  perception,  felt  these  things 
in  the  days  following  their  father's  trial  and  their 
mother's  death  and  funeral.  It  seemed  impossible  to 
settle  to  anything;  yet  things  had  to  be  done  and  ar- 
ranged for,  just  as  before  the  disaster;  and  routine 
rolled  its  car  over  the  shattered  emotions,  flattening 
them  out  with  its  commonplace  rumble  and  jolt. 

At  first  they  talked  in  undertones,  and  alluded 
to  what  had  occurred  in  guarded  phrases,  with  little 


KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  289 

bursts  of  tears,  and  chokings,  and  strangled  outbreaks 
of  anger  and  regret.  By  degrees  they  came  down  to 
a  hopeless  quiet  and  resignation;  things  were  done  be- 
cause they  could  not  be  helped;  things  were  spoken  of 
because  they  had  to  arrive  at  decisions.  Amos  John- 
stone  had  to  be  given  details  of  his  son's  death;  Mrs. 
Desmond's  clothes  had  to  be  disposed  of;  rooms  had  to 
be  re-arranged;  bills  had  to  be  paid,  the  tombstone 
chosen,  mourning  ordered,  letters  written.  In  the  ac- 
cumulating host  of  petty  needs  and  duties,  tragedy 
thinned  and  subsided  into  commonplace. 

The  sense  of  the  inevitableness  of  sorrow,  and  its 
insignificance,  hung  heavily  about  the  younger  mem- 
bers. It  was  amazing  that  such  things  should  happen 
to  them,  should  invade  their  home;  yet  no  one  else 
seemed  amazed.  Such  things  happened  in  sensational 
novels;  and  here  they  were  on  their  own  hearth,  and 
the  world  had  not  stopped  moving.  Nay;  it  was  mov- 
ing on  at  exactly  the  same  rate  in  the  same  way;  the 
neighbours  made  no  difference  in  their  habits;  the 
tradesmen  called  as  usual.  It  passed  away  as  if  it 
did  not  matter,  and  things  went  on  as  before. 

It  did  not  matter  to  others.  Very  soon  it  would  not 
matter  much  to  them!  Did  anything  matter?  It 
was  a  terrifying  thought,  and  gave  them  dreadful, 
jerky  moments  at  night,  so  that  they  drove  it  away  and 
would  not  let  it  come  too  close. 

The  thing  that  in  anticipation  is  incredible  and  mon- 
strous, is,  when  it  comes,  bearable  in  a  degree  that 
only  the  philosopher  can  understand.  Lady  Katherine 
felt  this,  as  well  as  the  Desmonds.  The  horror  she 


290    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

had  held  at  arm's  length,  and  had  risked  truth  and 
honour  and  peace  of  mind  to  avert,  was  not  so  horrible 
when  it  came.  It  was  more  irritating  than  overwhelm- 
ing, more  humiliating  than  painful.  Lady  Katherine, 
released  from  the  strain,  the  anguish,  and  the  fear  of 
Heaven  knew  what  in  the  way  of  consequences,  was 
almost  peevish  in  the  reaction,  and  was  inclined  to 
think  she  had  made  too  much  of  the  trouble  altogether. 
Of  Teresa  she  washed  her  hands;  and  was  disposed  to 
ride  the  high  horse  with  her  grandson  and  to  minimise 
the  wrong  done  to  the  Desmonds.  Gervase,  who,  to 
use  his  own  expression,  was  "ratty"  too,  took  this  ill, 
and  resented  it  hotly  for  the  Desmonds. 

The  loss  of  their  mother  was  the  one  thing  from 
which  the  young  people  could  not  recover;  and  the  con- 
centrated ill-will  of  which  their  father  was  the  object, 
made  family  life  at  The  Meadows  strained  and  un- 
comfortable. 

Mr.  Desmond  slipped  into  a  life  apart,  cared  for 
only  by  Kythe.  They  drifted  into  the  habit  of  sitting 
together  in  the  study,  silent  and  uncommunicative,  in 
a  desolate  fellowship  of  sorrow  which  they  could  dis- 
cuss with  no  one.  He  never  kissed  her,  nor  established 
any  close  relationship  with  her,  nor  asked  for  her  con- 
fidence. She  told  him  nothing  and  gave  him  nothing 
but  her  company.  What  comfort  each  found  in  the 
other,  neither  could  have  said. 

May  and  Hero  took  melancholy  possession  of  Mrs. 
Desmond's  room,  and  the  playroom  was  abandoned  to 
the  brothers.  It  was  no  longer  the  happy  hunting- 
ground  of  Lance  and  Guin;  nor  did  any  of  the  Des- 


KYTHE  TAKES  THE  REINS  291 

monds  go  over  to  The  Domain  or  the  luridly  attractive 
Tower  room,  where,  however,  the  young  Gervases 
would  not  stay  after  dark. 

Lady  Katherine  whisked  them  off  to  the  seaside, 
with  the  Chinese  nurse  and  her  own  personal  attend- 
ants, before  they  had  time  to  recover  their  equilibrium. 
No  one  saw  Teresa  or  knew  where  she  actually  was; 
and  although  her  children  wondered,  they  were  not 
encouraged  to  ask  questions.  Nor  did  they  really  care. 

In  a  sudden  spasm  of  decision,  Aunt  Hermione 
jerked  the  family  out  of  its  melancholy  groove.  No 
one  else  had  initiative  for  action,  so  she  took  matters 
into  her  own  hands.  She  and  the  Rector  would  go  to  a 
little  French  bathing  place  they  knew  of;  and  May  and 
Luttrell  would  come  with  them.  Hubert  and  Hero 
would  go  with  Uncle  Harry,  who  was  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  one  of  his  daughters.  The  decision  was  re- 
ceived with  approval;  and  Lennox  and  his  wife  felt 
free  to  go  to  visit  Dot's  mother  at  Brighton. 

No  one  suggested  that  Mr.  Desmond  should  join 
either  party;  but  when  May  said, 

"You  are  coming  with  us,  Kythe.  You  want  a 
change  dreadfully,  darling.  You  have  got  so  thin, 
and  all  your  colour  gone " 

Kythe  replied  with  a  quiet  firmness  that  took  them 
all  by  surprise: 

"No,  I  am  not  going  to  France.  I  am  taking  Father 
away;  he  wants  a  change  too.  We  are  going  to  the 
Norfolk  Broads.  He  will  like  the  boating  better  than 
bathing." 

Mr.  Desmond  looked  up  in  his  quick,  watchful  way; 


292    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

then  gave  his  shoulders  a  little  resigned,  indifferent 
shrug. 

"I   got   Mrs.   Lennox-Luttrell   to   take   rooms   for 
us,"  continued  Kythe.    "We  leave  on  Monday." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

TRUE  LOVE 

GERVASE  took  Lady  Katherine  down  to  the  retreat 
by  the  sea  which  she  had  selected,  and  stayed  there, 
with  her  for  a  few  days.  Neither  of  them  cared  much 
to  talk  of  what  had  happened,  nor  to  hazard  any  sug- 
gestions as  to  what  fate  would  be  likely  to  overtake 
Teresa.  If  she  had  to  answer  to  a  charge  of  perjury 
and  blackmail,  and  be  sentenced  to  a  term  of  imprison- 
ment, it  meant  more  odious  notoriety,  more  shame, 
more  humiliation.  It  was  no  use  thinking  of  it;  it 
would  be  bad  enough  when  it  came. 

Gervase  did  not  see  the  Desmonds  before  he  left. 
The  relations  between  the  families  was  so  awkward 
and  equivocal  that  he  no  longer  knew  whether  he  was 
looked  on  as  friend  or  foe;  and  beyond  a  letter  to  May 
expressing  his  deep  sympathy  and  distress  at  their  loss, 
and  a  formal  call  on  Mrs.  Raymond,  at  which  Hero 
was  present  and  he  was  therefore  unable  to  exchange 
any  confidential  remarks  with  his  hostess,  he  had  no 
communication  with  them.  Kythe  he  did  not  see  at 
all. 

He  intended  to  get  hold  of  the  Rector  and  find  out 
from  him  how  the  land  lay;  but  Lady  Katherine  made 

293 


294    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

such  demands  on  his  time  and  his  services  that  he 
found  no  opportunity  to  do  so. 

Lance  and  Guin  found  congenial  company  at  the 
seaside  after  their  kind.  They  noticed,  with  their 
unchildish  precocity,  that  Uncle  Arthur  was  changed, 
and  not  such  good  fun  as  he  used  to  be. 

They  had  long  talks  about  whether  his  queer  state 
had  anything  to  do  with  Kythe.  Guin  was  frankly 
incredulous  of  the  tale  that  he  wanted  to  marry  Kythe. 

"She  is  only  a  school-girl,"  she  repeated,  scorn- 
fully. "Same  as  me.  He  is  old  enough  to  be  our 
father." 

"That  doesn't  make  much  difference,"  objected 
Lance,  sagely.  "They  do  these  things,  you  know,  no 
matter  how  old  they  are.  Asses,  people  are,  when 
they  are  in  love." 

"Well,  but  Lance,  she  is  our  half-sister.  He  can't, 
you  know." 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  he  can't,"  replied  Lance,  with 
perplexed,  crinkled  brow  and  reflective  eyes.  "He 
isn't  any  real  relation  of  hers.  And  perhaps  it  is  be- 
cause he  thinks  he  can't,  or  he  oughtn't  to,  that  he  is 
so  different.  Perhaps  he  is  sorry  about  it." 

Guin  gave  this  her  reluctant  consideration. 

Lady  Katherine  noticed  the  change  too.  She  held 
the  stern  old-fashioned  view  that  it  was  better  to  be 
unhappy  than  to  fail  in  pride  and  dignity,  and  she 
would  as  soon  have  compromised  on  cheating  at  cards 
as  on  this  question  of  propriety.  He  must  "get  over 
it."  There  were  other  girls  than  this  girl.  It  would 
be  almost  better  he  should  never  marry  at  all. 


TRUE  LOVE  295 

"I  think  I  shall  go  back  to-morrow,"  he  said,  one 
evening.  "Do  you  think  you  can  manage?" 

"Have  you  let  Mellish  know?"  asked  Lady  Kath- 
erine. 

"No.    I  am  not  going  to  The  Domain." 
"Where,  then?"  in  surprise.     "To  the  Leighs?" 
"I  think  I  shall  go  and  stay  with  Hugh  for  a  bit." 
Lady  Katherine  said  nothing,  but  thought  a  great 
deal.    There  was  a  bad  strain  in  the  family;  and  under 
stress  it  was  likely  to  come  out.     Why  should  Arthur 
want  to  go  to  Redlands  and  the  Rattlers,  rather  than  to 
the  Leighs? 

She  lay  awake  until  late;  and  heard  him  go  to  bed. 
She  could  not  rid  herself  of  the  idea,  not  the  first  time 
it  had  assailed  her,  that  he  walked  unsteadily,  and  it 
took  all  her  self-control  next  day  to  prevent  herself 
looking  to  see  how  much  whiskey  he  had  consumed. 

He  was  to  leave  by  an  afternoon  train;  and  before 
lunch,  she  took  an  opportunity  of  having  a  talk  with 
him. 

She  broached,  of  her  own  accord,  the  subject  on 
which  she  had  kept  silence.  She  told  of  the  long 
months  in  which  the  bid  Squire  was  wearing  himself 
to  death  with  the  secret  he  locked  up  in  his  own  heart, 
and  how  at  last  she  had  got  it  from  him;  how  it 
preyed  on  him  that  he  had  killed  a  man,  and  that  he 
alone  knew  where  the  man  was  who  had  "disappeared," 
and  what  had  happened  to  him;  how  he  searched  the 
cellar,  in  desperate  anxiety,  to  find  the  entrance  to  the 
underground  room  or  passage  from  which  Desmond 
appeared  so  suddenly  and  into  which  he  fell  back;  how 


296    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

hopeless  it  was  to  think  of  helping  him  or  saving  him — 
if  perchance  he  had  not  been  killed — after  day  on  day 
had  passed;  how  determined  she  herself  had  been, 
when  she  came  to  know  the  story,  that  he  should  not 
expose  himself  or  his  name  to  such  publicity  or  sus- 
picion as  the  truth  would  entail  and  to  the  possible 
punishment  that  it  might  bring;  how  the  sight  of  Mrs. 
Desmond  and  her  grief  weighed  on  his  conscience,  and 
how  the  guilty  secret  told  on  them  both. 

"I  did  all  I  could  to  atone,"  she  said,  sadly.  "I 
stood  by  the  Desmonds;  and  I  took  charge  of  Teresa's 
children  and  gave  them  their  chance.  I  have  done 
wrong;  but  I  had  to  think  of  my  husband  and  our 
name.  I  would  do  the  same  again." 

Then, 

"The  name  and  place  will  come  to  you,  Arthur. 
Great  sacrifices  have  been  made  for  them;  you  will 
keep  them  and  hand  them  on  in  honour?" 

"There  has  been  a  good  deal  too  much  sacrifice," 
said  Gervase,  almost  sullenly.  "I  don't  say  you  were 
wrong,  Gran,  to  shield  my  grandfather.  You  could 
not  very  well  do  anything  else  then.  But  I  don't  see 
why  it  should  go  any  further." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  am  paying  very  dear  for  the  name 
and  the  place.  There  is  all  this  row,  and  the  disgrace 
of  our  relationship  with  Teresa,  on  the  one  hand;  we 
have  not  been  spared  that.  And  on  the  other  hand, 
you  want  to  strip  me  of  my  happiness  and  my  chance 
of  living  the  way  I  want  to  do." 


TRUE  LOVE  297 

With  some  alarm,  she  saw  he  had  been  drinking 
again. 

"All  I  want  is  the  wife  I  want.  Anyone  can  have 
the  rest.  I  want  Kythe,  Gran.  I  was  a  fool  to  tell 
her  it  was  not  possible.  It  is  possible.  There  is  no 
real  reason  against  it,  only  these  old-world  notions  of 
what  is  fit  and  becoming  and  so  on.  What  is  all  that, 
compared  with  my  happiness  and  hers?  Why,  in  the 
Lord's  name,  should  we  be  sacrificed  to  your  notions? 
People  don't  care  a  bit  about  all  that  old-fashioned 
dignity  and  stuff,  nowadays.  We  can  get  on  without 
it.  I  can't  get  on  without  Kythe.  And  as  for  honour; 
there  is  just  as  much  honour  in  telling  the  truth  and 
facing  the  music  as  in  keeping  secrets." 

Lady  Katherine  spoke  slowly.  Her  face  was  very 
white  and  her  lips  shook.  He  had  hit  her  hard. 

"Have  you  thought  of  what  may  happen  if  you 
marry  her?  Now  that  Mr.  Desmond  has  lost  his  wife, 
do  you  not  see  the  possibility  of  Teresa  getting  him, 
after  all?  Suppose  she  does  not  go  to  prison,  Arthur? 
Suppose  she  gets  her  claws  into  him — she  is  still  fas- 
cinating— and  tricks  him  or  persuades  him  into  mar- 
rying her,  for  the  sake  of  the  children,  or  something 
like  that?" 

He  kept  a  sullen  silence. 

"With  Kythe  Desmond  so  fond  of  Lance  and  Guin 
— her  half-brother  v  and  sister — and  Teresa,  their 
mother,  married  to  their  father,  in  constant  association 
with  them,  and  you?  You  could  not  keep  her  out  of 
your  house,  out  of  your  affairs.  Could  you  face  that, 


298    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

knowing  what  you  know  of  her,  and  her  capacity  for 
vindictiveness,  for  mischief,  for  intrigue?" 

Gervase  wriggled  uneasily.  He  knew  he  had  neither 
courage  nor  capacity  to  fight  Teresa. 

"If  you  do  it,  Arthur,  you  will  have  to  leave  The 
Domain,  and  take  the  children,  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
I  will  not  sanction  or  countenance  any  such  unnatural 
and  unseeming  arrangement,  nor  have  anything  at  all 
to  do  with  anyone  connected  with  it." 

That  was  their  good-bye.  She  walked  into  the 
house,  refusing  his  arm,  and  did  not  come  down  to 
lunch.  He  left  without  seeing  her  again. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  whiskey  with  which  he 
had  been  consoling,  and  inflaming,  his  grief,  he  could 
never  have  spoken  to  her  in  such  a  fashion.  And  as 
the  effects  of  his  drinks  wore  off,  he  grew  bitterly 
ashamed  of  himself.  Lady  Katherine,  in  the  exposure 
that  had  taken  place,  was  shown  to  be  one  of  the 
offenders,  not  one  of  the  victims;  one  in  the  conspiracy 
of  silence;  and  no  matter  how  one  sympathised  with 
her  fierce  defence  of  her  husband's  name  and  reputa- 
tion, and  the  family  dignity,  no  matter  how  one  ad- 
mired her  stem  capacity  for  holding  her  tongue,  the 
fact  remained  that  she  had  done  wrong;  and  people 
recognised  it  and  meted  out  to  her  a  certain  condemna- 
tion. She  could  not  fail  to  know  it  and  feel  it.  And 
he  had  emphasised  it;  "rubbed  it  in,"  as  he  said  to 
himself,  with  reddening  face  and  inward  contrition; 
and,  she  who  had  been  so  good  to  him,  was  a  lonely 
old  woman,  brooding  on  past  woes  and  troubles,  broken 
in  health,  with  her  hopes  all  centred  on  one  thing — 


TRUE  LOVE  299 

his,  Arthur  Gervase's  future  dealings  with  the  family 
name  and  home. 

He  felt  a  complete  brute. 

Also  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  been,  not  drunk, 
but  on  the  borders  of  sobriety;  and  that  in  strict 
sobriety  he  did  not  hold  the  lax  views  he  had  expressed. 
He  belonged  to  the  respectable,  conventional  school; 
he  approved  of  social  canons  and  restrictions;  he  knew 
that  such  a  situation  as  he  would  create,  by  marrying 
Kythe  under  the  conditions  that  had  grown  up  among 
them,  would  offend  his  taste  and  his  convictions  all  his 
life  long.  The  added  terror  of  possible  close  relations 
with  Teresa — Teresa  reinforced  by  that  fellow  Des- 
mond for  a  husband — made  him  shrink  all  over. 

He  disliked  Desmond  exceedingly.  He  disliked  him 
when  he  thought  him  a  cool,  dangerous  ruffian;  he 
disliked  him  still  though  he  knew  him  to  be  an  injured 
victim.  He  was  coarse;  without  the  same  excuse  for 
coarseness  as  such  people  as  the  Rattlers  had,  for 
instance,  who  had  never  had  any  refinement  to  lose. 
He  had  let  himself  coarsen.  In  an  environment  where 
every  man's  hand  had  to  keep  his  head,  he  had  "made 
good"  as  a  man;  but  he  had  let  slip  that  which  made 
him  a  gentleman. 

Gervase  remembered  Kythe's  wild  loathing  of  her 
father.  It  was  strange  to  hear  of  her  now  in  constant 
attendance  on  Desmond — a  common  sorrow,  of  course, 
often  heals  such  feuds,  and  it  was  as  much  jealousy 
of  Mrs.  Desmond  as  anything  else  that  made  the  Des- 
monds resent  their  father's  monopolising  presence. 
Kythe 


300    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

How  he  longed  for  her  now.  How  scornfully  he 
thought  of  the  half -patronising  way  in  which  he  esti- 
mated her  love  for  him.  He  wanted  her  overwhelm- 
ingly, and  thought  of  her,  showering  her  sweet  care 
on  the  ex-convict  Desmond,  with  a  hunger  that  was 
like  a  physical  pain. 

Of  course,  now  that  Desmond  had  such  a  pitiful 
tale  of  injury  and  persecution  and  unprovoked  mis- 
fortune to  pitch,  they  would  think  of  him  quite  dif- 
ferently. Instead  of  a  cold-blooded  scoundrel,  he 
would  be  the  innocent  martyr,  the  defrauded,  the  dis- 
possessed. They  would  try  to  make  up  to  him  for 
his  misfortunes,  would  shower  sympathy,  love,  on  him. 
And  he,  Gervase,  who  had  never  concealed  his  dislike 
— it  would  tell  against  him  with  them;  with  Kythe. 
They  would  think  of  him  as  the  brother  of  Teresa 

So  he  tormented  himself.  So  he  went  over  the 
track.  And  as  much  as  he  longed  for  Kythe  and  her 
sweetness,  so  much  and  more  he  hated  the  idea  of 
marriage  with  her  and  all  that  it  would  mean. 

When  he  got  to  Redlands,  he  was  in  a  thoroughly 
wretched  and  unstrung  condition,  at  odds  with  fate 
and  all  the  world;  and  Hugh  noted  with  misgiving 
aroused  anew,  that  he  took  far  too  much  whiskey. 

Hugh  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  although  weak  enough 
to  have  let  himself  be  drawn  into  certain  shady  trans- 
actions. He  was  quite  happy  with  "the  Rattler 
crowd";  they  suited  him.  His  wife  was  quieting  down 
these  days,  and  both  were  ambitious  for  the  little 
daughter,  and  anxious  to  give  her  every  chance  in  life. 
Mrs.  Hugh  had  always  liked  her  brother-in-law.  He 


TRUE  LOVE  301 

had  never  given  himself  airs  about  her,  she  said;  and 
she  was  worried  as  well  as  Hugh.  Husband  and  wife 
had  long  consultations  about  Arthur's  state  of  mind, 
and  the  Desmond  girl,  and  Teresa.  They  sent  him 
over  as  often  as  they  could  to  the  Manor  Farm;  but 
Tom  Leigh,  had  they  but  known  it,  was  as  worried  as 
they  were. 

Gervase  stayed  a  few  days  with  Tom  Leigh,  and 
heard  from  him  how  the  Desmonds  had  gone  abroad 
in  batches,  and  how  the  little  girl  had  taken  charge  of 
her  father  and  was  with  him  up  the  Norfolk  Broads. 

"She  is  the  pluckiest  of  them  all,"  said  Tom  Leigh, 
who  knew  nothing  about  the  love  affair.  "Her 
mother  over  again." 

Gervase  came  back  to  his  brother's  and  brooded 
and  drank,  in  gloomy  alternations  of  defiance  of  the 
conventions  that  he  believed  in,  and  acceptance  of  a 
decree  against  which  he  was  in  revolt. 

Had  he  but  known,  he  was  never  out  of  Kythe's 
thoughts.  She  boated  and  picnicked  with  her  father, 
always  on  the  same  unconfidential  terms;  and  while 
the  soft  curves  came  back  to  her  cheeks  and  the  rich 
colour  to  her  skin,  her  absent,  dreamy  eyes,  so  like 
her  mother's,  saw  the  lover  who  had  jilted  her  in  every 
changing  aspect  of  the  landscape.  Everywhere  his 
face  and  figure  were  framed;  there  was  no  escape  from 
her  overmastering  pre-occupation. 

He  had  jilted  her;  she  would  flush  and  stiffen  with 
anger  at  the  recollection.  He  was  a  coward,  afraid 
to  stand  up  to  social  disapproval.  He  was  a  cheat,  an 
impostor,  who  had  stolen  what  he  had  no  right  to 


302     WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

have,  because  he  wasn't  man  enough  to  keep  it.  He 
was  Arthur,  her  dear  love  who  had  kissed  her  in  those 
rapturous  dusks,  in  the  soft  dim,  dewy  evenings,  when 
no  one  knew — and  the  longing  to  see  him  again,  to 
beseech,  to  argue,  to  persuade,  alternated  with  the 
anger  that  wanted  to  see  him  again  to  upbraid,  sneer, 
denounce. 

She  grew  into  womanhood  in  those  tense  weeks,  with 
an  expression  old  beyond  her  years,  reserved,  self- 
possessed  and  self -controlled  as  a  woman  of  ripe  ex- 
perience. Her  father  watched  with  feelings  that  never 
found  their  way  into  words;  and  noted  with  each 
passing  day  the  growing  likeness  to  her  mother. 

In  the  autumn  they  returned  home,  and  the  house- 
hold resumed  its  accustomed  way. 

Kythe  urged  her  father  to  take  up  some  employ- 
ment; and  he  bought  the  lease  of  some  building  land 
to  lay  out  in  cottages  with  gardens,  allotments,  and 
sports  grounds  for  town  workers,  in  connection  with 
a  slum  settlement.  Designing  the  houses  and  gardens 
by  degrees  absorbed  his  interest;  and  Kythe  gave  him 
ideas  for  the  interiors  of  the  houses  from  the  house- 
keeper's point  of  view. 

Tales  reached  her  ears  that  Gervase  was  drinking. 
She  heard  that  he  made  Redlands  his  headquarters  and 
that  Lady  Katherine  was  gravely  offended  with  him. 
Lance  was  taken  from  school  and  put  into  the  "shops" 
to  learn  engineering;  Guin  was  sent  to  a  finishing 
school  in  Paris.  The  parting  between  them  was  bitter; 
but  Lady  Katherine  was  inexorable.  Teresa  was 
sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment,  and  it  was 


TRUE  LOVE  303 

thought  best  that  the  children  should  leave  the  place, 
at  least  for  a  time.  Gervase  did  not  approve,  Kythe 
heard;  and  his  relations  with  his  grandmother  became 
more  strained. 

Gervase  heard  of  Kythe's  return;  and  after  a  strug- 
gle with  himself,  took  to  haunting  the  lane  again. 
Once  or  twice  he  saw  her  in  the  distance;  once  he  met 
her  face  to  face  near  the  garden  door,  with  her  father. 
The  two  men  lifted  their  hats  and  passed  in  silence. 
Kythe  bowed  slightly.  She  did  not  so  much  as  colour, 
let  alone  look  back  at  him.  But  she  was  achingly  con- 
scious of  his  flushed  face  and  the  aroma  of  spirits. 

Gervase  began  to  think  in  a  new  direction.  The 
whirl  of  angry  pride  in  which  Kythe  had  parted  from 
him  had  never  assumed  much  significance  in  his  esti- 
mate. She  was  angry,  that  was  all.  She  was  covering 
her  defeat.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  could 
not  whistle  her  back,  if  he  wanted  to.  Something, 
however,  of  the  unmoved  resolution  in  her  face  as 
he  passed  them,  her  look  of  complete  absorption  in  her 
own  schemes,  whatever  they  were,  affected  him  with  a 
feeling  of  terror.  It  was  like  a  hand  laid  on  his  heart 
to  stop  its  beating. 

The  beating  was  the  more  violent.  In  a  panic,  he 
imagined  he  had  lost  her,  completely;  and  by  his  own 
deed,  not  by  the  decrees  he  was  half-minded  to  defy. 

She  had  not  looked  back,  had  shown  no  confusion, 
had  not  changed  colour.  She  had  looked  him  fairly  in 
the  face  when  she  bowed.  No  shirking  or  shrinking. 
Good  God,  what  had  he  done? 

She  had  said,  "That  is  what  is  called  jilting,  isn't 


304    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

it?"  She  had  said,  "If  you  cannot  face  the  first  trouble 
that  comes,  you  are  not  fit  for  me  to  want."  And 
she  was  so  young,  it  would  be  fairly  easy  for  her  to  be 
carried  away  by  the  new  sensations,  and  in  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  to  transfer  all  her  love  and  her  loyalty  to 
the  ill-used  father.  Besides,  what  she  said  was  true. 

He  had  jilted  her.  He  had  broken  down  before  the 
first  trouble.  Why  in  the  name  of  anything  should 
she  trust  him  again,  or  care  for  him  any  more? 

A  great  desolation  overtook  him,  and  he  went  to  bed 
very  drunk  indeed. 

Next  day  he  was  more  ashamed  of  himself  than  ever. 

"She  is  quite  right,"  he  thought,  ruefully.  "I  am 
no  end  of  a  rotter.  We  are  all  rotten.  What  hope  is 
there  for  people  like  us!" 

He  and  Hugh  were  out  early.  It  was  Sunday,  a 
bright,  clean,  sparkling  day,  with  no  wind.  All  the 
world  seemed  gay  and  happy. 

"I  say,  you  know,"  began  Hugh.  "I'm  not  much 
of  a  one  to  read  sermons.  Teresa  was  right  when  she 
slapped  that  at  me.  But  you  know,  old  man,  no  mat- 
ter what  the  trouble  is — and  I  know  you  are  in  it 
pretty  deep — drink  won't  help.  Makes  it  worse. 
Makes  people  sick.  A  drunkard  is  a  beastly  thing. 
Even  I  have  never  gone  that  way." 

"Who  says  I  have?" 

"I  do.  Unless  you  pull  up — good  and  quick.  We 
can't  afford  to  play  tricks,  Arthur.  We  haven't  got 
the  moral  stuffing.  We've  got  to  run  strict  and 
straight,  or  we'll  go  off  the  track.  Don't  let  there  be 


TRUE  LOVE  305 

two  of  us.  We  have  all  been  proud  of  you — the  wife 
is  breaking  her  heart  about  it." 

Never  a  word  said  Arthur,  and  Hugh  said  no  more 
either.  But  his  dyed  and  painted  wife  nearly  cried 
with  joy  when  Arthur  asked  her  if  she  would  get  little 
Katherine  ready  and  let  her  come  to  church  with  him. 
There  were  actually  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  watched 
him  stride  away,  holding  the  child's  hand  as  she 
skipped  and  trotted  beside  him. 

She  sat  with  him,  little  Katherine,  rosy  and  demure, 
in  the  Gervase  enclosure,  swinging  her  little  feet  and 
straining  for  the  hassock  to  stand  on;  he  finding  her 
places  in  the  big  books  which  she  could  not  read,  but 
which  she  conned  with  impressive  attention.  May 
and  Luttrell  Desmond  sat  with  Aunt  Hermione  under 
the  pulpit;  Hero  and  Hubert,  Lennox  and  his  wife, 
Mr.  Desmond  and  Kythe,  in  the  family  pew.  Kythe 
and  her  father  sat  at  the  end,  sharing  a  hymn-book. 
It  was  evident  that,  having  made  up  their  minds  to 
put  a  brave  face  on  things  and  to  carry  on  their  daily 
life  as  far  as  possible  without  flinching,  it  was  well  with 
them,  and  they  had  found  a  measure  of  peace. 

Many  eyes  were  turned  towards  Major  Gervase  and 
his  little  niece.  He  lifted  her  on  to  his  knee  during 
the  sermon,  and  she  went  to  sleep. 

Closely  as  he  watched,  he  could  not  see  Kythe  look 
once  in  his  direction.  Yet  had  he  known — something 
in  the  return  to  his  normal  ways,  in  the  signs  of  a  new 
resolve  to  shoulder  his  burdens  as  she  was  shouldering 
hers,  to  do  his  duty  by  his  own  people,  however  little 


306    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

credit  they  might  be  to  him,  to  stand  by  Hugh  and 
his  wife,  and  the  little  maiden  christened  after  the 
grandmother  who  had  been  mother  and  guardian-angel 
to  them;  this  seemed  to  bring  him  nearer  to  her,  and 
to  shed  one  ray  of  hope  on  the  desolate  horizon  of  her 
love. 

Lady  Katherine  came  in,  slow  and  infirm,  but 
stately,  for  the  Sacrament  service;  and  Gervase  held 
the  door  open  for  her,  for  the  first  time  for  many  a 
Sunday,  and  put  the  hassock  in  its  place,  as  he  used  to 
do.  She  looked  at  the  flushed,  awakened  child,  trying 
with  a  deep  sense  of  propriety  to  sit  straight  and  be- 
have nicely.  The  sleepy,  blinking  eyes  were  soft  and 
bright. 

She  touched  the  warm  cheeks  with  her  hand. 

"Is  this  little  Katherine?"  she  said,  low  and  gentle. 

"Yes,  Gran.    Do  you  mind?" 

"I  am  very  thankful  if  she  is  to  be  brought  up  in 
the  Church." 

It  was  a  treaty  of  peace.  In  it  were  included  the 
family  at  Redlands. 

He  stayed  out  the  service,  which  little  Katherine 
slept  through  peacefully;  and  saw  his  grandmother 
back  to  The  Domain. 

"When  are  you  coming  home?"  she  asked,  at  the 
front  door. 

"May  I  bring  Kythe?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause; 
adding,  "if  she  will  come!" 

A  smile,  more  sarcastic  than  amused,  broke  out  on 
the  old  lady's  face. 

"I  am  glad  you   have  the  grace  not  to  count  your 


TRUE  LOVE  307 

chickens,"   she  observed.     "And  am  I   to  have  the 
Rattlers  and  all  your  other  choice  acquaintances  too?" 

"Only  Katherine's  mother,"  he  answered,  with  a 
heart  full  of  thankfulness.  "They  called  this  little 
thing  after  you  to  give  her  a  chance." 

"Don't  stay  away  too  long,"  said  Lady  Katherine. 

He  went  back  to  Redlands  with  the  little  girl  on  his 
shoulder,  happier  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  day. 
Little  Katherine  had  great  chatter  to  pour  out  to  her 
mother,  and  the  mid-day  meal,  before  the  usual  Sun- 
day incursion  of  Rattlers  and  their  intimates,  was 
pleasant  and  peaceful.  Hugh  breathed  more  freely 
when  he  saw  the  Tantalus,  from  which  Arthur  had 
helped  himself  once,  pass  its  second  round  untouched; 
and  his  wife  cried  freely,  to  the  serious  detriment  of 
her  farcical  "make-up,"  when  she  heard  how  Lady 
Katherine  had  passed  the  olive-branch  along. 

Next  Sunday  night  Gervase  paced  the  lane  again. 
He  had  spent  the  day  in  the  open  air;  his  soul  was 
his  own  again,  his  head  clean  and  clear.  He  had  an 
unreasoning,  instinctive  belief  that  Kythe  would  come 
to  the  garden  door;  and  when  he  heard  the  lifting 
latch,  he  was  alert  and  prepared.  In  the  deep  shadow, 
he  waited  unseen  until  she  stepped  outside. 

She  found  him  between  her  and  the  door  before  she 
quite  realised  he  was  near. 

"Are  you  going  to  forgive  me?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

Her  voice  was  not  so  steady  as  she  could  have 
wished. 

"Everyone  else  is  forgiven.    Mayn't  I  be?" 


3o8    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

"What  excuse  had  you,  that  you  should  be  for- 
given?" 

"None.  So  all  the  more  I  need  forgiveness.  Peo- 
ple with  excuses  don't." 

"It  is  easy  to  joke." 

"It  isn't.  It  is  the  only  way  not  to  despair. 
Kythe!" 

He  held  her  hands  and  tried  to  draw  her  into  his 
arms,  but  she  resisted  him. 

"What  is  it  you  want?  Another  opportunity  to  tell 
me  you  can't  possibly  marry  me?" 

She  spoke  with  the  garnered  bitterness  of  months 
of  tension. 

All  his  irresolution  went  to  the  winds. 

"No.  You  know  it  isn't.  I  want  an  opportunity 
to  tell  you  what  you  know  very  well.  I  can't  do  with- 
out you— Kythe!  Kythe?" 

He  turned  her  face  up  and  kissed  her  lips,  drunk 
with  joy  and  triumph.  When  she  struggled  he  held 
her  fast.  She  could  not  help  returning  his  kisses;  her 
pride  was  fast  breaking  down. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  passionately,  almost  in  a  sob.  "It 
isn't  fair.  It  isn't  fair,  ft  is  horrible  that  I  should 
want  anything  so  much  as  to  overlook  what  you  did. 
I  shall  never  forgive  it." 

"Never?"  with  his  face  against  hers,  his  kisses  hot 
and  insistent. 

"No.  Not  even  if  I  marry  you.  I  shall  always  have 
it  in  my  heart." 

"And  I  shall  always — always — try  to  make  you  for- 
get." 


TRUE  LOVE  309 

"You  were  a  brute.     AH  men  are." 
"But  you  love  me?" 

*  *  *  * 

"You  must  come  in  and  tell  Father  yourself,"  she 
whispered,  presently.  "And  if  you  are  not  really  and 
very  nice  to  him,  /  shall  jilt  you." 

"I'll  fall  on  my  face  before  him,  rather  than  that." 

She  brought  him  into  the  study  where  Mr.  Desmond 
sat  at  the  window,  smoking. 

His  weary  gaze  came  back  from  the  garden  at  the 
sound  of  his  daughter's  voice;  and  hardened  as  he  saw 
Gervase. 

Neither  of  them  was  very  coherent;  and  he  rose, 
looking  at  them  with  cynical  amusement. 

It  stung  Gervase. 

"I  asked  you  once  before,  Desmond,  if  you  would 
let  me  marry  your  daughter.  I  am  asking  again 
now;  and  in  addition,  I  am  asking  your  forgiveness 
for  anything  I  may  have  done  to  make  your  very  great 

trouble  heavier.  Kythe "  he  turned  to  the  girl, 

whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  father,  "you  can  say  it 
better  than  I." 

Desmond  held  out  a  hand  to  his  daughter.  He  had 
never  touched  her  of  his  own  accord  before. 

"Do  you  want  him?"  he  asked.  "Is  he  good  enough 
for  you?  What  will  you  give  me  if  I  give  him  to  you 
— will  you  give  me  that  kiss  you  have  never  given  me 
yet?" 

Kythe  coloured  as  she  had  never  done  for  Gervase 


3io    WHAT  BECAME  OF  MR.  DESMOND 

when  Desmond  put  his  arm  round  her  and  looked  down 
quizzically  at  her  drooped  eyelids. 

"I  would  have  given  it  to  you  long  ago,"  she  said, 
half -laughing,  half -tremulous,  "if  you  had  ever  asked 
for  it!" 

Desmond  kissed  her,  greedily  and  noisily,  the  way 
they  all  disliked  so  fiercely. 

"I  can  give  her  you  now,"  he  said  to  Gervase;  "now 
that  I  have  had  something  for  myself — at  last!" 


THE  END 


i  inn  mil  mil  mil  lllll  Illlll., 
A     000  035  882    o 


